I 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGECE5 


THE    MEASURE    OF    LIFE 


THE    MEASURE 
OF   LIFE 


BY 

FRANCES    CAMPBELL 

AUTHOR   OF 
"TWO  QUEENSLAXDERS,"    "A   PILLAR  OF  DUST" 


NEW  YORK 
E.   P.   BUTTON   &   CO. 

31   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 


TO 

LADY  ARCHIBALD  CAMPBELL 

I  OFFER  THESE  SPIRITUAL  ADVENTURES, 

THE-  BEST    OF    WHICH    WERE   INSPIRED 

BY  HER,  OUT  OF  A  KNOWLEDGE  GREATER 

THAN  MY  OWN 


2125792 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SCARECROW i 

A  SARONG  OF  TRENGGAM 8 

THE  LOCK  OF  THE  LITTLE  SOULS  .       .       .       ..15 

GLASTONBURY  THORN 24 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  PITY       ...  30 

PALINGENESIS 37 

THE  SHIP  OF  HEAVEN 45 

"  FOR  AS  THE  SOUL  DOTH  RULE  " 57 

THE  WATERS  OF  TIR-NA-OGE 64 

THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  STARS 73 

BORROWED  DAYS  AND  STRAYED 82 

THE  SUNLIGHT  OF  THE  SEA 90 

SILHOUETTES 98 

THE  GOLDEN  RULE 105 

THE  HOUR  OF  SILENCE 113 

HELL-SHOON 120 

BLOWN  FROM  THE  INFINITE 128 

SONGS  IN  THE  RAIN 137 

THE  Music  OF  THE  WILD 145 

vii 


Contents 

PAGE 

PEARLS  AND  GREY  DAYS 152 

GRAN-FINN 157 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  FIRE 164 

THE  Music  OF  THE  MOON 172 

THE  TURF-CUTTER 178 

WIND  AND  THE  SILENCE 190 

FEOGHDAWN 199 

CRUX  MYSTICA 206 

IN  THE  DAWN  OF  TIME 215 

THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  FOUR  WINDS  .  .  .  .224 
THE  QUEST  OF  LORNACH  OF  BANBA  .  .  .  .235 
THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GOLDEN  FLOWERS  .  .  .242 

LlBAN  OF  THE  WAVE 351 

SAMHAIN 259 


Vlll 


THE   MEASURE   OF   LIFE 


THE  SCARECROW 

TT  THEN  I  open  my  window  in  the  morning,  I 
look  out  on  the  snow  of  spring,  the  scattered 
bloom  lying  heavily  on  the  apple  boughs,  faintly 
pink ;  the  pear  and  plum  and  cherry,  peach  and 
nectarine,  against  the  red-brick  wall,  pressed  flatly 
crimson  along  its  length. 

On  the  top  of  the  wall  brown  and  yellow  wall- 
flowers bloom,  flinging  their  sweet  odours  on  the 
whistling  gales.  The  oak  is  covered  over  with  bronze, 
the  chestnut  casting  off  all  its  brown  satin  coverings 
and  putting  out  little  spires  of  tightly  folded  green, 
tipped  with  invisible  coral. 

The  cedar  tree  spreads  a  romantic  shadow,  darkly 
violet  on  the  grass  ;  the  pine  rushes  up  over  the 
margin  of  the  river,  between  its  level  spreads  of  vivid 
green ;  and  a  walnut  tree,  gauntly  bare,  stands 
between  me  and  the  feathery  greenness,  light  and 
airy,  of  the  willows  along  its  verge. 

All  along  that  wide  stretch  of  ground  I  can  see 

I  B 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  cloud-shadows  chase  the  sunshine  over  the  purple- 
brown  of  the  furrowed  fields.  The  sun  shines  on  it 
gaily ;  the  storms  come  up  and  burst  across  it,  the 
low  clouds  trailing  in  vapoury  grey  on  the  serried 
lines  of  faint  vegetation.  One  long  space,  running 
parallel  with  the  hedge,  is  completely  bare  of  green- 
ness, and  over  it  wavered  from  time  to  time  a  small, 
grotesque  figure,  impossible  to  distinguish  from  such 
distance. 

And  ever  and  anon,  through  rain  and  shine,  came 
a  burst  of  childish  song,  clear  and  shrill — just  two 
lines  of  an  old  familiar  tune.  I  think  I  have  heard 
it  all  my  life.  It  is  the  very  first  of  all  my  recollec- 
tions, sitting  by  the  fire  in  an  old  Irish  house  and 
listening  to  its  mystic  note.  I  have  heard  it  in 
France  in  a  convent  garden,  on  an  atoll  in  the 
Pacific,  in  a  hut  in  the  jungle  in  Java.  It  is  the 
oldest  melody  in  the  world,  and  belongs  to  a  time 
when  the  world  was  young.  It  is  a  wild  music — full 
of  mysterious  suggestion.  It  makes  me  think  of  an 
air  that  strikes  hotly  on  the  cheek,  the  sound  of  flutes 
played  softly,  and  the  fragrance  of  tuberoses.  Odd 
to  hear  it  wafted  on  the  freezing  wind  of  early  spring, 
across  the  pear  and  apple  blossom,  within  sound  of 
London  town ! 

Yesterday  the  sun  shone  warmly  all  day  long ; 
last  night  it  snowed.  This  morning  the  wind  blew 


The  Scarecrow 


from  the  north-east,  bitterly  cold,  from  a  blue  sky  all 
frilled  with  great  indigo-coloured  clouds,  bursting 
with  icy  rain. 

I  saw  the  clouds  sail  along  the  furrows,  sweeping 
over  the  horizon,  scattering  the  nesting  birds  before 
them  like  withered  leaves,  driving  past  my  windows 
in  a  tempestuous  downfall,  chill  as  ice. 

And  through  it  all  came  the  little  song — just 
two  lines — again  and  again.  I  went  out  and  sought 
the  singer. 

I  found  him  on  the  patch  of  bare  ground  which 
had  been  but  newly  sown — a  tiny  lad  in  a  tattered 
coat  down  to  his  bare  heels,  an  old  straw  hat  pulled 
over  his  scarlet  ears,  and  a  ragged  handkerchief  tied 
to  a  long  stick  in  one  purple  hand. 

But  his  eyes,  wide  and  bright,  were  happy  enough, 
though  his  face  was  almost  blue,  his  lips  blanched 
to  whiteness  with  the  bitter  cold.  He  stopped  in 
his  walk  between  the  furrows  every  now  and  again 
to  dance  in  the  wet  soil  and  sing  his  little  song — 

"  Fly  away,  little  burds,  till  the  blade  springs  full, 
The  sun  is  shinin'  wonnerfool ! "_ 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  at  the  end  and 
made  such  an  outcry  that  all  the  birds  in  Christendom 
must  e'en  have  taken  flight  had  they  heard  it.  I 
looked  over  the  hedge  and  saw  the  heap  of  ashes 

3 


The  Measure  of  Life 


where  the  hedger  had  made  his  fire,  saw  my  way, 
climbed  across,  and  stood  beside  the  Scarecrow. 

He  was  such  a  small,  pathetically  cheerful  Scare- 
crow that  my  heart  went  out  to  him  at  once.  "  You 
be  trespassin1,"  he  assured  me  joyfully. 

I  said  I  did  not  mind  if  he  did  not,  whereat  he 
laughed,  and  sang  his  little  song  once  more.  I  asked 
him  why  he  chose  such  weather  to  rival  my  friend 
the  blackbird. 

He  gripped  at  the  wet  soil  with  his  purple  toes, 
and  sang  again,  dancing  merrily.  "They  dratted 
sparrers  don't  be  mindin'  the  weather  much,"  he 
remarked.  He  bellowed  loudly,  and  certain  adventu- 
rous sparrows  fluttered  wildly  past  us  on  the  gale. 
And  with  them  came  down  the  rain,  blotting  out  the 
long  furrows,  and  surrounding  us  with  the  fragrance 
of  daffodils,  sweetest  of  pure  chill  scents.  The  very 
breath  of  spring.  Brentford  is  always  full  of  the 
breath  of  daffodils  in  the  early  months.  One  cannot 
see  them,  but  can  always  divine  their  presence  near. 
They  are  there  in  crowds — fields  of  them,  acres  of 
them ;  daffodils  in  orchards,  in  back  yards,  in  old 
walled  gardens,  rising  like  last  year's  sunshine 
returned  with  the  perfume  of  last  year's  lost 
happiness. 

The  rain  shut  me  in  with  the  little  Scarecrow. 
It  beat  in  our  faces  and  ran  in  torrents  from  our 

4 


The  Scarecrow 


hair.     It  made  little  pools  round  our  feet,  and  pelted 
in  our  ears.     Cold,  cold  rain. 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  the  Scarecrow,  sorrowfully,  "  you  do 
be  gettin'  wet !  Stan'  behin'  me,  an'  I'll  keep  some  off.1' 

I  followed  him  down  the  flooded  furrow,  stood 
while  he  danced,  and  went  on  while  he  sang.  Said  I — 

"  How  can  you  go  on  singing  that  when  the  sun 
is  nowhere  visible  ?  " 

"But  he  shone  yestidy,"  retorted  the  Scarecrow, 
with  a  merry  eye.  "  An'  like  enough  he'll  be  shinin 
termorrer " 

"  Pray,"  I  inquired,  "  is  this  a  paying  occupation  ? 
How  much  a  week  ?  " 

"  Eighteenpence,"  said  the  Scarecrow,  happily. 
"  Lot  o'  money,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"Riches!"  I  agreed  enthusiastically.  "Tell  me, 
what  would  you  do  if  somebody  gave  you  fifty  times 
that  much  ? " 

He  pondered  on  this,  after  his  song  and  dance, 
while  the  rain  descended  and  beat  on  us  both. 

"  There  ain't  that  much  money  in  Brentford,"  he 
said,  with  a  regretful  eye. 

I  sought  in  my  wet  pocket  and  found  half  a 
crown,  with  which  I  immediately  presented  him.  He 
bit  it  carefully,  keeping  an  eye  on  me  the  while,  and 
waving  the  ragged  flag  lest  the  sparrows  should  take 
advantage  of  his  preoccupation. 

5 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  What's  it  for  ? "  he  demanded  sturdily. 

"  Keeping  the  rain  off,"  I  assured  him. 

He  pondered  over  that,  and  thought  it  would 
serve. 

"  I  kep'  a  good  deal  off,"  he  considered  thought- 
fully. 

He  disposed  of  the  coin  in  some  mysterious  re- 
ceptacle in  his  tattered  garment,  while  the  wind 
wound  its  long  tails  about  his  bare  legs,  and  he  sang 
lustily. 

"What  will  you  do  with  it  ?  "  I  questioned.1 

"  How  much  tea  an'  terbaccer  can  yer  get  for  this 
much  money  ? "  he  asked,  touching  himself  eagerly. 

I  told  him  what  I  thought,  and  he  beamed  like  a 
disguised  Cupid,  slapping  his  wet  sides  joyfully. 

"Anything  for  yourself?"  I  went  on.  "What 
would  you  like  best  ?  " 

"  I  like  a  big  rattle,"  he  responded  instantly,  "  to 
fright  them  dratted  sparrers !  "  And  he  bellowed  at 
them  again  like  a  bull  of  Bashan. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  home  ?  "  he  suggested  ; 
"  you're  pretty  wet,  you  know." 

I  ploughed  my  way  back  to  the  hedge,  found  the 
narrow  fence  joining  it  to  the  bridge,  and  got  over 
on  the  towpath. 

There  a  thought  struck  me,  and  I  called  back, 
"  Who  is  the  tea  for— and  the  tobacco  ? " 

6 


The  Scarecrow 


"  Granma,"  he  shouted,  "  an*  Granfer — they  both 
be  bad  with  rheumatiz." 

"  Good-bye,  Scarecrow  ! "  I  returned. 

He  danced  in  the  splashing  furrows.  "You're 
not  so  bad  yerself,"  he  bawled  on  the  screeching 
gale.  "WT  all  that  'air  flying  loose — they  will  kid 
you  goin'  back." 

"Come  with  me,"  I  entreated,  "and  keep  them 
off;"  but  he  went  down  the  furrows  dancing  and 
singing  as  if  there  were  no  such  things  as  cold  and 
rain  in  the  world — 

"  Fly  away,  little  burds,  till  the  blade  be  full, 
The  sun  is  shinin'  wonnerfool ! " 

And  all  at  once  the  sun  shone  out,  golden  and 
triumphant ;  the  river  ran  like  glass.  The  thickset 
hedge  was  dusky  coral  hung  with  scintillating  gems. 
The  old  tower  stood  up  against  a  sky  of  deepest 
ultramarine.  All  the  trees  were  covered  with  a  veil 
of  palest  shimmering  green.  The  far-off  heights 
came  near — pure  lapis  lazuli.  All  the  songbirds 
shouted  melodiously,  and  off  the  gleaming  furrows 
came  the  familiar  refrain.  Oh  yes !  he  was  wonder- 
ful— even  for  a  scarecrow;  and  I  am  sure  that  so 
long  as  he  lives,  and  where'er  he  may  be,  the  sun 
will  shine  wonderfully  in  his  heart. 


A   SARONG   OF  TRENGGAM 


^TT^HE  bungor  tree  quivered  in  the  sunlight,  its 
•*•  leaves  a  tremulous  play  of  pale-green  light,  its 
blossoms  clustering  fires  of  deep  purple,  the  branches 
flames  of  pale  silver,  and  its  smooth  trunk  a  pillar  of 
white  heat. 

It  stood  above  the  red-walled  river  where  the 
water  rushed,  a  mirror  of  glass  —  silent,  fierce,  irre- 
sistible —  beneath  the  arch  of  the  low  bridge,  and 
vanished  in  the  forest  Above,  the  sky  reached  high 
and  infinitely  blue.  Afar  on  each  side  lay  the  forest, 
motionless  in  the  noontide  heat,  all  greenish-grey, 
with  here  a  blaze  of  pure  scarlet,  and  there  a  mist  of 
mauve.  All  silent,  motionless,  remote  —  no  faintest 
susurration,  no  whisper  from  wandering  winds.  It  was 
as  if  I  sat  in  a  world  uninhabited  but  for  me.  And 
with  the  silence  I  was  conscious  of  a  something  that 
only  comes  near  the  soul  when  it  is  utterly  alone. 

The  sweet,  haunting  fragrance  of  the  bungor- 
flowers  floated  out  on  the  air  like  incense  burning  at 
a  hidden  high  altar  in  the  mighty  aisles  of  a  vast 
cathedral.  A  strange  thought  came  to  me  —  that  if 

8 


A  Sarong  of  Trenggam 


I  could  find  that  altar,  the  boon  I  so  craved  might 
not  be  denied. 

I  looked  from  the  hastening  waters  of  the  river, 
and  saw  beside  me  in  the  shadow  of  the  bungor  tree 
one  whom  I  had  known  in  days  gone  by.  Then  he 
had  been  a  great  and  powerful  prince  ;  now  he  was 
a  mendicant  priest.  He  had  made  the  Great 
Renunciation.  Had  left  his  palaces,  his  riches,  his 
pleasure,  luxuries,  and  kin,  so  that  none  of  these 
might  come  between  him  and  his  preparation  for  the 
Hereafter. 

His  goings  and  comings  no  man  might  know. 
Like  the  wind,  he  was  there ;  like  the  wind,  he  was 
gone.  His  was  a  more  than  mortal  power,  for  he 
could  read  the  unspoken  thought,  and  because  of  his 
sufferings  nothing  was  hidden  from  him  that  was 
good  to  know.  He  sat  silent,  regarding  me  with 
strange,  bright  eyes. 

His  patched,  yellow  robe  hung  faded  and  thin 
around  him,  his  emaciated  hands  clasped  on  his  staff, 
his  thick  hair  flowing  around  his  thin  face.  He 
answered  my  heart. 

"  No  man,"  he  said  slowly,  "  may  have  to-day's 
feast  and  to-morrow's  song." 

"  But  why  not  ? "  I  asked,  my  eyes  returning  to 
the  fleeting  mirror  of  black  glass  between  its  confining 
walls  of  red.  "If  he  live  to-day  and  wakes  to-morrow?" 

9 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"It  is  ordained,"  answered  the  priest,  "that  he 
who  feasts  at  sunset  shall  not  sing  at  dawn.  With 
this  instant  we  buy  the  next  For  everything  a 
price.  It  is  the  Law." 

"  For  beauty  and  wealth,  O  Holy  One ! "  said  I, 
"there  is  no  law,  nor  doth  he  who  thinks  with  the 
Persian  regard  it.  What  if  he  say : 

"  '  One  thing  is  certain,  and  the  rest  is  Lies — 
The  flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies.' 

What  then?" 

"Beauty  and  wealth,"  pronounced  the  deep,  un- 
impassioned  voice  from  beneath  the  shade,  "  are  but 
honey  on  the  edge  of  a  knife — when  the  sweetness  is 
gone  from  the  flesh,  the  knife  bites  deep  through 
bone  and  sinew,  piercing  the  soul ;  what  availeth 
jewelled  hair  or  painted  eyes,  the  clash  of  the  cymbal 
or  scented  garments,  if  the  soul  is  bleeding  within 
and  naught  can  stay  its  agony  ?  I  know  the  Persian. 
What  if,  like  wind  along  the  waste,  he  gathers  wisdom 
till  he  teach  again  with  more  knowledge  ?  None  but 
the  fool  is  utterly  accursed." 

"  Holy  One,  who  is  the  Fool  ?  " 

"He  who  takes  the  moment  as  by  right  and 
calleth  it  his  own,  destroying  the  thing  that  prevents 
his  gratification,  or  that,  perhaps,  which  ministers  to 
it ;  he  who  is  without  thought  or  care  or  compassion, 
whose  sole  desire  is  himself,  into  whose  heart  the 

10 


A  Sarong  of  Trenggam 


Eternal  looks  and  sees  it  full,  with  no  room  for  aught 
beyond  self ; — that  man  is  the  fool — be  he  beggar  by 
the  wayside  or  the  king  upon  his  throne." 

"  Is  the  fool  to  blame  because  he  is  a  fool  ? " 

The  silence  came  near  and  listened  for  his  reply ; 
I  had  a  thought  that  the  river  was  grasped  tight 
within  my  two  hands ;  and  for  all  my  strength  it 
flowed  the  same — swift,  terrible,  and  strong — away 
from  me  to  the  impalpable  shadow  of  the  infinite. 

When  I  lifted  my  eyes  again  I  saw  the  priest  sat 
holding  out  a  wonderful  sarong  of  fine  stuff.  In  it 
were  blended  all  marvellous  primal  colours  and  half- 
tints  :  the  amethyst  of  the  mountains  at  evening,  the 
rapturous  vermilion  of  the  dawn,  the  sheeny  green 
of  the  paddy-fields  at  noon,  the  red  of  the  ruby  and 
the  darker  flame  of  living  blood,  lavender  grey,  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  green  of  the  sea  where  it  shoals 
over  coral,  and  the  deeper  sapphire  where  it  sinks  to 
depths  unknown.  Crossed  with  gold,  shot  with  silver ; 
the  sarong  gleamed  and  shone  in  the  flickering  sun- 
light from  between  the  roof  of  leaves. 

I  took  the  cloth,  speechless  with  wonder,  and  laid 
it,  a  flame  of  woven  splendour,  across  my  knees. 

I  forgot  the  speeding  river,  the  purple  glooms  of 
forest  and  the  fate  of  the  accursed,  to  gaze  upon  its 
sparkle  and  brightness,  when  suddenly  it  lay  changed, 
a  fine  cloud  of  wavering  grey — flat  and  monotonous 

II 


The  Measure  of  Life 


—with  incoherent  design  and  broken  weft,  knotted 
warp,  and  marred  edge. 

"Holy  One!"  I  cried  in  dismay,  "what  is  this 
thing  ?  Is  this  the  Cloth  of  Dreams  ? " 

"Not  so,  Beloved!"  he  protested,  with  bright, 
shadowless  eyes  on  mine.  "But  the  web  of  a  life- 
Nor  is  the  brightness  gone.  It  only  waits  the  light. 
Give  it  to  me." 

He  took  the  sarong  back,  and  held  it  up,  glowing, 
and  shining  in  the  sun.  "  Hearken  now,"  he  said : 
"to  each  one  of  us  is  given  at  the  beginning  no  more 
than  the  grey  yarn  and  the  loom.  Therewith  must 
we  weave  a  garment  to  clothe  ourselves.  After — 
and  the  garment  is  Life — what  we  make  will  determine 
our  state  when  it  is  done.  The  king  cannot  sit  down 
with  the  sweeper.  Yet  kings  may  weave  garments 
that  will  fit  them  only  for  the  sweeper's  caste,  and 
the  sweeper  will  be  clothed  like  the  sun.  For  see, 
we  must  weave  our  sarong  from  what  others  give  us 
on  the  highway  where  we  ply  our  loom.  Mark  well, 
we  have  only  the  grey  yarn,  the  fibre  of  the  beaten 
flax,  and  that  is  not  sufficient  for  a  festal  garment. 
Therefore,  with  great  pangs  we  seek  the  wherewithal 
to  make  it  beautiful.  Some  will  give  us  the  Opal  of 
Blessing  or  the  Ruby  of  Love.  And  whatever  we 
gain  is  always  in  exchange  for  what  we  have  first 
given.  It  is  the  Law.  Fire  of  sacrifice,  reds  that  are 

12 


A  Sarong  of  Trenggam 


suffering,  abnegation,  self-conquest,  holy  aspirations, 
repentances,  charities — most  of  all,  love  and  charity 
— the  charity  that  costs  much  to  the  giver.  Each 
traveller  along  the  way  leaves  a  something  worthy  to 
be  woven  in  the  design  if  the  gift,  the  gift  bestowed 
upon  him,  is  sufficiently  of  value.  And  it  matters 
not  if  he  know  its  worth  and  cherish  it  greatly,  or  if 
he  fling  it  in  the  dust  to  perish  beneath  careless  feet. 
The  substance  left  you  will  be  the  same ;  for  what 
you  give  determines  what  will  be  given  in  return. 
All  is  woven  in  the  loom,  the  shuttle  flies  till  Death 
comes  by,  cuts  the  warp  and  severs  the  weft — and 
the  Soul  goes  forth  wearing  the  garment.  This." 

He  held  the  long  cloth  up  in  his  lean,  brown 
hands,  flashing  like  a  fabric  of  strange  jewels  in  the 
fugitive  sunlight,  the  gorgeous  colouring  picked  out 
a  design  marvellous  in  its  clean  simplicity. 

"  This  was  woven  in  a  Trenggama  loom ;  the 
weaver  was  a  potter — and  a  king." 

"  Like  you,  had  he  made  the  Great  Renunciation?" 

"  Nay,  for  he  was  a  potter  from  the  beginning ; 
see  what  this  garment  of  his  has  become.  Yet,  like 
you  and  me  and  the  Fool  of  whom  we  spake,  he  had 
in  the  beginning  no  more  than  a  handful  of  grey  flax." 

"Can  one  weave  such  garment  for  another 
withal?" 

"  It  is  the  Law  that  no  one  can  weave  for  another, 
13 


The  Measure  of  Life 


but  always  for  himself.  There  is  no  time  for  more ; 
wise  man  or  fool,  we  are  allowed  but  so  long  for  the 
making  of  that  which  will  clothe  our  souls." 

Once  more  my  eyes  were  fastened  as  by  a  spell 
on  the  swift  river  within  its  red  walls.  Suddenly  its 
surface  ruffled  in  a  puff  of  noonday  wind.  The 
bungor  tree  showered  down  on  me  a  rain  of  scented 
blossoms.  All  the  forest  moved  and  came  closer, 
calling  in  soft  whispers  from  cool  and  ferny  depths — 
and  I  knew  I  was  alone. 


THE   LOCK   OF   THE   LITTLE 
SOULS 


r 

•*• 


was  a  little  crowd  on  the  narrow  strip  of 
shelving  grass  by  the  old  mill.  A  man  was 
thrusting  a  long  pole  at  haphazard  into  the  water  ;  a 
woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  narrow  plank  bridge  and  looked  down  where 
the  glassy  blackness  of  the  mill-race  broke  over  the 
crazy  old  wheel  in  a  turbulent,  bluish  foam. 

Old  Mary  Fitzgerald  was  sitting  on  the  tiller  of  a 
disabled  barge  moored  to  the  mill-quay.  Her  eyes 
brooded,  dark  with  dream,  on  the  darkness  of  the 
Brent  —  the  still  blackness  that  looks  still  because  of 
the  incredible  swiftness  of  its  motion.  She  never 
glanced  aside  at  the  tumbling  walls  of  the  mill,  with 
its  mossy  bridge,  its  lichen-grown,  red-tiled  roof,  the 
ferns  and  ivy  clinging  to  its  shattered  windows.  Her 
gaze  was  on  the  Brent,  that  leaps  here  like  some 
sullen,  black-browed  woman  touched  with  a  sudden 
frenzy  of  passion  to  the  arms  of  her  lover,  and  is  lost, 
after  that  transient  rapture,  in  dull,  drab,  monotonous 
despair,  morosely  gliding  to  the  larger,  deeper  stream, 
to  be  merged  and  lost. 

15 


The  Measure  of  Life 


She  lifted  her  large  grey  eyes  from  the  rushing 
water  to  look  into  my  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Mary  ? "  I  asked  in  the  Irish ;  for 
Mary  came,  in  her  old  age,  to  keep  her  son's  children 
in  this  place,  and  has  but  little  English,  so  she  is  glad 
to  hear  the  Erse  in  this  foreign  land. 

"It  is  little  Owen  Budh,"  she  said  softly;  "he 
went  out  to  play.  You  will  be  lookin'  for  him, 
achree  ?  " 

*  I  will  be  looking  for  him,"  I  assured  her.  "  Yes  ; 
I  will  bring  him  back." 

"  Ah,  no !  "  she  murmured,  her  eyes  returning  to 
the  glassy  water.  "You  will  not  be  bringin'  him 
back,  Murgien  Cr6n,  though  he  had  the  great  love  for 
you." 

She  was  silent  at  that,  and  when  I  spoke  again 
she  did  not  hear.  So  I  left  her,  remembering  that 
old  Mary  had  times  of  dream  when  no  one  came  nigh 
her. 

Slow,  silent,  black,  smooth  as  a  mirror,  the  Brent 
flowed  between  the  towpath  and  the  low  meadows, 
reflecting  in  its  mid-stream  the  high  blueness  of  the 
spring  day,  driven  across  by  fleecy  clouds.  At  the 
sides  the  radiant  greenness  of  the  spring,  each  little 
leaf,  each  twig  and  spray. 

The  wind  was  high,  and  suddenly  cold,  suggesting 
the  nearness  of  snow  for  all  the  brilliant  sun.  It 

16 


The  Lock  of  the  Little  Souls 

sang  and  puffed  and  gambolled  over  buttercups  and 
mayflowers,  shaking  the  bloom  off  the  gnarled 
hawthorns,  the  petals  off  the  apple  and  pear.  May 
had  lent  March  a  day,  and  March  had  sent  her  this 
in  exchange ;  yet  all  its  wild  playfulness  never  rippled 
the  Brent  for  more  than  a  moment  of  time. 

Out  there  on  the  towpath  the  air  brimmed  with 
gaiety;  there  was  an  endless  roundelay  in  the  tall 
elms,  in  which  each  bird  was  trying  its  part.  The 
blackbird  in  the  rapture  of  his  artist  soul,  surrounded 
by  sun  and  green  leaves,  started  on  a  keen  high  note, 
whistling  it  again,  again,  and  again,  till  the  heart  cried 
out  at  its  sweetness.  Then  he  all  at  once  burst  into 
a  wonderful  melody,  exquisite  in  its  cadence,  falling 
in  perfect  time  and  tune  and  measured  phrase,  with 
the  thrush  making  a  full  deep  second,  and  the  little 
stone-chaffbreaking  into  the  pauses  of  the  wind  with 
his  "chip,  chip,  chip,"  till  the  whole  choir  broke 
into  song  simultaneously,  and  he  was  lost  to  the 
ear. 

A  barge  came  down  the  Brent,  hardly  breaking 
the  black  water.  The  old  grey  horse  remembered 
me,  and  took  the  narrowest  margin  as  I  thrust  myself 
against  the  quickset  hedge  to  let  him  pass,  looking 
at  me  the  while  with  friendly  seriousness  out  of 
eyes  like  amethysts  drowned  in  some  deep  bog 
pool. 

17  C 


The  Measure  of  Life 


His  old  master — grey,  too,  with  time  and  weather 
— gave  me  good  day,  and  the  wife  smiled  from  beneath 
her  faded  sunbonnet,  greeting  as  she  went  by. 

They  hardly  rippled  the  dark  river  ;  there  was  no 
sign  when  I  reached  the  old  lock,  deserted  now,  since 
the  barges  go  through  the  canal,  that  a  boat  had  ever 
gone  through.  It  is  very  quiet  at  the  old  lock.  No 
one  ever  comes  there.  I  was  alone  with  the  sweet,  cold 
spring  day.  I  sat  on  the  great  beam,  covered  with  faded 
red,  with  which  the  huge  water-gates  are  moved.  There 
was  a  dark,  level  mirror  down  below,  and  into  it  gushed 
little  waterfalls  of  palest  aquamarine  from  the  crack 
between  the  doors.  On  the  left  was  a  row  of  tall  elms 
swaying  and  sighing  in  the  wind  ;  between  them  were 
glimpses  of  the  silver  and  golden  starred  meadows, 
bordered  with  tall  reeds  and  sedges.  On  the  right, 
the  emerald  greenness  of  the  springing  furrows,  the 
purple  greenness  of  the  young  beet  and  the  pale 
chrysoprase  of  springing  corn.  Before,  the  river,  level 
and  slow,  flowing  to  the  bridges  of  the  ancient  city, 
hidden  in  its  windings.  And  overhead,  the  high  blue- 
ness  of  the  sky  swept  by  the  rushing  wind,  singing  of 
the  sea  ;  through  it  the  soaring  melody  of  the  choir 
of  Love,  phrased  by  the  "  chip,  chip,  chip "  of  the 
stone-chaff. 

"  It  is  a  very  happy  day  ! "  It  was  a  voice  so 
small  and  sweet  that  it  seemed  the  thought  within 

18 


The  Lock  of  the  Little  Souls 

me  made  articulate  by  wind  and  bird  and  swinging 
bough,  the  dripping  of  water  on  water. 

"  It  is  a  happy,  happy  day  !  "  repeated  the  voice. 

I  glanced  aside  in  that  lonely,  quiet  place,  green 
and  removed,  wondering  who  could  speak  like  that. 
A  little  child  with  yellow  hair  and  eyes  greenly  blue 
sat  on  the  beam  beside  me  in  the  sunlight.  He  was 
a  little  child,  wearing  a  tattered,  pinkish  tunic  that 
seemed  familiar  to  me,  but  there  was  a  strange  light 
over  him  which  made  me  wonder.  I  could  not  be  sure 
of  him,  for  now  he  seemed  in  that  greenness  to  be 
substance,  and  now  merely  shadow.  Now  I  thought 
him  like  the  grass,  now  the  leaf  shapes  on  the  trees, 
and  now  the  reflections  from  the  river.  He  made  me 
think  of  the  mayflowers,  the  reeds  and  sedges,  the 
sallow  twigs,  and  the  iris  bending  in  the  breeze.  Then 
he  smiled,  and  I  knew  him.  He  was  little  Owen  Budh. 

"  Oh,  Owen  Budh  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  'tis  glad  I  am  to 
find  you.  You  must  go  home  with  me." 

He  drew  up  his  little  bare  knees  and  clasped 
his  hands  around  them.  I  thought  he  blew  sidelong 
in  the  wind  like  a  yellow-petalled  flower. 

"  I  will  not  be  goin'  back  any  more  to  that  place," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh  in  his  changing  eyes.  "  I  will  be 
stayin'  here  a  long  while." 

"Oh,  but,"  I  urged,  "your  grandmother  will  be 
sad  for  you,  Owen  Budh  !  " 

19 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  She  will  not  be  sad  for  me,"  he  laughed.  "  Tis 
better  here  nor  at  home." 

"  But  tell  her  why,"  suddenly  said  another  little 
voice  at  my  elbow  ;  and  I  saw  before  me  on  the  tow- 
path  a  slender  lad  in  a  quaint  dress  of  changing 
velvet.  A  dark  little  boy,  with  great  brown  eyes 
that  smiled  in  the  sun.  He  held  by  the  hand  a  tiny 
baby  girl,  with  curly  flaxen  hair,  who  babbled  joyfully, 
swinging  herself  to  and  fro.  Her  long,  straight  frock 
was  clinging  to  her  little  limbs,  and  her  curls  lay 
damply  on  her  baby  forehead.  Owen  Budh's  curls 
were  damp  too. 

"  If  you  look  over,"  he  whispered,  pointing  to  the 
black  silence  below,  "you  will  see  that  I  cannot  go 
home." 

There  was  a  white  glimmering  in  the  dark  water 
far  below.  I  could  not  see  what  it  was,  but  I  knew 
suddenly  why  Owen's  curls  were  wet. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  ?  "  questioned  the  grave  little 
boy  in  the  velvet  dress. 

I  looked  at  him  in  the  sun,  and  saw  he  had  on  him 
the  emerald  and  purple  of  the  iris  when  it  blooms  in 
the  hot  July  day. 

"Why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Then  we  can  all  come,"  he  cried  softly ;  and  his 
voice  was  like  the  echo  of  the  murmuring  leaves,  as 
he  waved  a  transparent  hand  across  the  lock. 

20 


The  Lock  of  the  Little  Souls 

"This  is  the  lock  of  the  little  lost  children,"  he 
explained  to  me.  "  There  are  many  of  us." 

Instantly  there  was  a  throng  of  little  children 
around  me,  pressing  over  the  narrow  bridge,  and 
across  the  towpath,  and  on  the  level  grass,  peeping 
from  the  elms  and  hawthorn,  and  among  the  reeds 
and  flags. 

"  The  river  took  us,"  went  on  the  grave  little  boy. 
"  None  of  us  were  happy  and  our  homes  were  dark." 

A  little  girl  with  streaming  auburn  hair  placed  a 
tiny  hand  on  my  knee. 

"  We  have  light  now ;  we  are  never  hungry ;  and 
we  are  so  happy." 

"  We  are  all  happy ! "  cried  the  soft  baby  voices. 

The  children  came  nearer,  lifting  up  and  down  in 
the  wind,  their  little  garments  showing  all  tints  of 
emerald  and  aquamarine,  the  greenness  of  sapphire, 
the  topaz  greenness,  the  verdure  of  the  turquoise. 
They  smiled  at  me,  touching  me  with  hands  that 
were  soft  like  the  kiss  of  the  passing  wind,  caressing 
me  with  cool  lips  that  had  no  touch  in  them. 

"  How  can  you  be  happy  ? "  I  questioned. 

The  tall  girl  with  the  auburn  hair  swayed  her  slim 
body  in  the  sun,  and  answered  me.  "  We  are  happy 
like  the  trees." 

"  Like  the  wind  and  stars,"  added  the  dark  boy 
in  the  velvet  dress. 

21 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  Like  the  birds  and  the  clouds,"  said  Owen  Budh. 

"  The  river  and  the  butterflies,"  said  another. 
"  We  are  part  of  them  all  and  their  joy." 

They  rose  off  the  level  like  a  flock  of  butterflies, 
chrysoprase  and  golden,  and  settled  on  the  river  above 
the  lock. 

"  Come  again  and  see  us,"  they  cried. 

"  Good-bye,  Murgien  Cno !  "  cried  Owen  Budh  ; 
and  his  voice  was  the  insistent  note  of  the  blackbird 
I  have  heard  along  the  river  bank.  "  Good-bye  !  "  The 
sound  came  to  me  that  time  like  a  word  on  a  reed 
pipe  played  softly  in  the  wind,  when  one  dreams 
between  dark  and  twilight. 

Fiontuin  reclined  against  the  rusty  windlass,  his 
black  eyes  laughing  at  me. 

"Oh,  Weaver  of  Dream!"  cried  I,  "was  this 
illusion  ?  Were  the  children  here  ?  " 

"The  little  lost  children  of  the  lock?"  said  he. 
"  They  were  here,  Murgien ; "  and  his  pipe  sang  as 
Owen  Budh  had  sung  to  me  at  Christmas-time. 

"  They  are  learning  to  be  happy,"  he  went  on  to 
my  unspoken  thought.  "  They  had  but  little  happi- 
ness in  their  dark  houses." 

"  But  must  they  stay  here  for  endless  years  ?  " 

"  Years  !  "  scoffed  Fiontuin  ;  "  years  are  the  ropes 
of  sand  with  which  Humanity  would  bind  souls  to 
earth.  There  are  no  years.  What  is  Time  to  Him 

22 


The  Lock  of  the  Little  Souls 

who  gives  an  aeon  to  the  mark  on  a  bird's  wing  or 
the  colour  of  a  flower  ? " 

"  And  what  can  these  little  lost  ones  learn  ?  " 

"  The  joy  of  the  blowing  wind,"  said  Fiontuin, 
playing  on  his  little  grey-green  pipe  the  while ;  "  the 
blossoming  flower,  the  bird's  rapture,  the  happiness  of 
the  leaping  wave,  the  drifting  cloud,  the  flowing  tide, 
the  peace  of  all  growing,  happy,  beautiful  things. 
Happiness  is  the  essence  of  God's  self.  They  must 
learn  before  they  can  go  on." 

"  And  we  who  cannot  go  out  so  soon  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Must  learn  in  blood  and  tears — in  sweat  and 
grime.  Beloved,  farewell!" 

Mary  Fitzgerald  peered  up  at  me  from  beneath 
her  hood. 

"  An'  why  will  ye  be  weepin',  asthore  ?"  she  asked. 
"For  the  little  life,  so  near  the  Heart  of  Love  ?" 

And  yet  I  think  that  Mary  wept,  even  as  I  did. 
Though,  perhaps,  not  for  little  Owen  Budh. 


GLASTONBURY   THORN 

I  WANT  you  to  come  with  me  and  look  out  on 
the  night.  Not  the  night  of  this  great  city,  with 
its  roaring  streets,  and  never-ending  procession  of 
haunting  faces  fleeting  by  no  man  knows  whither ; 
not  this  swelling  vortex  of  human  energy  and  effort — 
no !  but  away  far  on  the  downs,  among  the  silent 
forest  folk. 

It  is  very  still  there,  and  there  is  but  little  light, 
for  the  moon  is  young,  a  circle  of  pale  gold,  with  one- 
half  its  circumference  pressed  into  the  steely  indigo 
of  the  winter  sky.  There  is  a  cold  radiance  from  the 
glittering  stars  in  Orion's  belt,  and  Hesper  hangs  very 
low.  The  silence  may  be  almost  felt,  yet  the  night  is 
young  ;  but  it  is  December,  and  bitterly  cold  for 
Christmas-time. 

The  trees  stand  gaunt  and  leafless,  holding  out 
bare,  long  branches  to  the  sky,  all  covered  by  a 
delicate  network  of  small  twigs,  intricate  and  fine  as 
lace.  Even  in  this  dim,  frosty  light  the  vivid 
vermilion  of  their  forked  tips  is  the  dominating  note 
in  the  frigid  silence.  The  trees  stand  motionless  in 

24 


Glastonbury  Thorn 


their  long  avenues,  arraying  themselves  in  misty 
distances  where  star  and  moonlight  lose  themselves 
in  amethystine  depths  frozen  into  immutable  calm. 
All  the  little  wild  creatures  are  huddled  in  nest  or 
burrow  or  hollow  trunk  ;  it  is  freezing  hard,  and  the 
cold  brings  a  merciful  torpor  with  it  to  them  all. 

I  remember  this  avenue  in  the  wood  in  the  late 
summer-time,  the  path  was  green  as  emerald  then, 
and  the  trees  were  still  resplendent  in  their  sweeping 
foliage.  I  followed  a  ray  of  sunlight  down  to  this 
little  glade,  and  saw  there  an  ancient  thorn,  gnarled 
and  old,  with  all  the  summer  greenery  crying  shame 
on  its  barrenness.  Here,  in  this  small  open  space, 
where  the  bracken  is  stiff  with  the  sparkle  of  frost 
jewels,  and  the  moss  shines  in  the  gloom  like  scattered 
diamonds — here  are  larch,  and  fir,  and  oak,  all  stark 
and  stripped.  But  can  this  white  wonder  be  the 
thorn  ?  The  moonlight  shows  forth  a  miracle !  The 
thorn  is  burdened  with  blossom  and  leaf,  the  cold  air 
is  sweet  with  the  breath  of  May.  It  is  unmistakable 
— yet !  Well,  how  can  it  be  ?  What  marvel  is  this 
that  upholds  the  sweetness  and  bloom  of  spring  to 
the  icy  winter  skies  ?  It  is  the  Glastonbury  Thorn, 
which  blossoms  for  the  birthday  of  our  Lord.  That 
is  the  legend.  No  need  to  repeat  it  here,  it  is  known 
so  well.  It  may  be  that  the  pious  monkish  scribe 
who  first  wrote  it  down  knew  in  his  heart  that  it  had 

25 


The  Measure  of  Life 


blossomed  thus  long  years  before  the  Christ-child 
came,  but  none  the  less  he  showed  forth  a  meaning 
in  its  history,  that  she  who  runs  may  yet  read  plain, 
for  it  is  the  Symbol  of  the  Soul,  an  epitome  of  Faith. 

The  skies  are  bitter,  the  wind  chills  to  the  very 
marrow  ;  on  every  side  is  blank  desolation  and  death, 
yet  here  stands  the  thorn — triumphant,  fragrant, 
lovely  beyond  all  description — a  thing  of  wonder,  so 
beautiful  that  unconsciously  the  mind  is  filled  with 
reverence  and  the  heart  with  worship.  It  is  immortal 
youth,  smiling  on  the  grave  of  the  past. 

Yet  here  it  stood  when  Spring  walked  the  earth, 
and  all  the  wood  folk  put  on  their  loveliest.  The 
oak  had  leaves  of  burnished  copper ;  the  larch  hung 
itself  with  sweet-smelling  crimson  tassels ;  and  the 
fir  piped  like  a  shepherd  on  the  hills  in  the  wandering 
airs  of  May.  And  it  was  naked  and  bare  amid  them 
all.  Spring  is  the  time  of  flowers,  but  it  had  none  ; 
bare  in  the  dim  moonlight  of  December,  in  the  very 
chill  and  snow  around  it,  it  writes  itself  a  miracle. 
Let  us  go  !  It  begins  to  work.  Memory  is  awaking 
at  the  touch  of  its  pale  fragrance — bitter-sweet, 
poignant  memory  of  a  vanished  spring — a  summer 
fled,  when  the  sun  shone  warm,  and  the  sweet  o* 
the  year  was  still  to  come.  Does  the  thorn  remember 
that  day — the  first  warm,  lovely  day  which  came 
clothed  like  a  bride,  in  a  drifting  robe  of  vapoury 

26 


Glastonbury  Thorn 


white,  hung  over  the  tenderest  cobalt,  with  the 
sunbeams  flashing  and  playing  through  ?  It  had  no 
buds  ready  to  break  their  brown  coverings  at  a  touch  ; 
no  green  leaves  already  put  forth.  It  was  bare  as 
the  oak  is  now.  Unlovely  and  barren  in  all  the 
riotous  sweetness  of  the  spring. 

Did  it  feel  its  own  ugliness  and  isolation  ?  Did 
it  fret,  think  you,  against  the  cruel  decree  which  kept 
it  thus  apart,  when  all  nature  wore  her  loveliest 
robes  ?  Was  there  wild  rebellion  and  futile  beating 
against  the  bars  of  iron  circumstances  ? 

Who  can  tell  ?  No  one  of  us  can  know,  but  we 
must  feel  instinctively  that  it  was  so.  But  if  it  was, 
what  gladness  must  fill  it  now !  Look  back !  how 
beautiful  it  is  amid  the  ice  and  snow ! 

So  it  is  with  many  a  human  life,  and  especially 
with  many  women.  The  springtide  of  life  passes  by 
them  with  niggardly  hand,  bestowing  nothing,  while 
lavishing  much  on  all  around.  Every  pretty,  useless, 
evanescent  thing  has  its  bridal  crown  of  flowers,  its 
vernal  wedding  garment,  while  they  stand,  grim  and 
barren,  out  of  all  harmony  with  their  world.  They 
cannot  respond  to  the  sunshine,  to  the  gracious 
showers,  or  the  balmy  winds.  Spring  and  summer 
alike  pass  them  scornfully  by.  Autumn  chills  and 
stings  them  with  the  reproach  of  barrenness.  Then 
comes  winter  with  roaring  tempest  and  bitter  tooth. 

27 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Crimson  leaf  and  golden  fruit  are  alike  beaten  down 
and  forgotten.  There  are  wild  storms,  sleet  and 
snow,  nipping  frosts,  and  long,  silent  nights  of 
darkness.  And  lo !  when  hope  seemed  dead  and 
youth  perished  and  gone,  the  miracle :  the  snow- 
white,  fragrant  blossom  and  leaf,  for  Christmas  Eve. 
So,  too,  there  are  natures  in  whom  the  sunshine 
of  wealth  and  happiness  awake  no  soul-bloom.  They 
are  so  shut  up  within  themselves,  so  narrowed  into 
their  own  interests,  that  they  unconsciously  absorb 
all,  and  give  nothing  in  return.  It  may  be  that  the 
second  self  that  lies  dormant  within  us  all  protests 
dumbly  against  its  own  incapacity,  and  it  may  be 
the  protest  is  unheard.  Then  comes  the  winter  of 
suffering  and  misfortune.  The  sap  rises,  the  tiny 
brown  buds  jut  out,  and  presently  there  is  the  bloom 
filling  the  icy  winter  day  with  delight.  We  cannot 
have  it  all  ways.  If  youth  and  middle  age  are 
bare  of  flower,  the  bloom  will  most  surely  come 
to  be  a  December  miracle.  Some  women's  souls 
develop  slowly,  and  put  forth  all  their  fragrance 
when  youth  is  past.  But  they  need  the  season  of 
dark  and  doubt  and  loneliness  before  the  bloom  and 
beauty  can  mature.  And  to  them  what  may,  per- 
haps, seem  the  affliction  of  the  innocent  is  but, 
after  all,  the  necessary  development  of  their  dormant 
fruitfulness. 

28 


Glastonbury  Thorn 


It  is  never  a  wise  thing  to  shirk  pain  or  suffering 
or  loss.  Accept  them  all  as  the  thing  needful  to 
perfection,  the  winter  that  so  beautifies  the  barren 
tree.  Poverty,  sickness,  yearning — all  these  make 
up  the  storm  and  frosts  and  forbidding  skies  of  life. 
But  if  we  look  steadily  through  them  to  the  eternal 
sunshine  of  God's  face,  our  souls  will  be  crowned  with 
blossom  like  the  Glastonbury  Thorn. 


IN   THE   HOUSE   OF   OUR   LADY 
OF   PITY 

/HpHE  House  of  Our  Lady  of  Pity  stands  in  one 
•*•  corner  of  a  silent,  old-world  square.  Once 
upon  a  time  it  was  the  country  mansion  of  a  wild 
and  witty  lord,  companion  in  iniquity  to  a  dissolute 
king,  well-nigh  as  witty,  though  scarce  so  wise  as 
himself. 

It  fronts  the  square  boldly,  a  mellow  expanse  of 
time-worn  vermilion,  overgrown  with  lichen,  moss, 
and  ivy,  its  tall  windows  and  capacious  porch  speaking 
wide  welcome  to  the  passer-by,  and  to  those 
wanderers  who  come  timidly  to  its  ever-open  door, 
broken  by  the  tempest  of  life,  to  hide  themselves 
below  its  red-tiled  roof.  The  mission  of  the  Sisters 
of  Our  Lady  of  Pity  is  to  those  unfortunates  who 
seldom  repent,  because  repentance  is  of  so  little  avail, 
since  the  world  will  neither  forget  nor  condone  their 
offence.  When  they  are  utterly  broken,  when  misery 
has  said  its  last  word  to  them,  when  Death  whispers 
at  their  ear,  such  of  them  as  know,  creep  to  the  arms 
of  Our  Lady  of  Pity,  and  are  comforted  by  the  know- 
ledge that  Almighty  Love  will  not  look  so  keenly 

30 


In  the  House  of  our  Lady  of  Pity 

into  the  performance  as  the  intention.  "  He  knoweth 
all  things,"  say  the  Sisters,  and  ask  no  question  of 
the  refugees.  Within  the  roomy  old  mansion  all  is 
immaculately  clean  and  pure.  The  wide,  spacious 
rooms  are  full  of  sunshine,  and  silent,  odorous  of 
incense,  scented  with  flowers  from  the  old-fashioned 
garden. 

In  that  garden  the  Refugees  love  to  work  ; 
perhaps  the  first  and  most  innocent  of  all  human 
instincts  is  the  love  within  us  for  the  garden,  of 
watching  the  green  things  spring  and  bud  and 
blossom  into  loveliness.  The  Sisters  of  Our  Lady 
of  Pity  are  all  women  gently  born,  gently  bred  ;  they 
esteem  that  old  garden  as  their  most  powerful 
persuader  back  to  the  paths  of  peace. 

In  it  grow  all  the  quaint,  sweet  old-world  flowers 
that  our  ancestors  loved  for  their  virtues  or  their 
fragrance.  Sweet-william  and  marigolds,  goat's-rue, 
and  the  white  pinks  beloved  of  hapless  Anne  Boleyn. 
Roses,  York  and  Lancaster,  cabbage  and  moss  roses  ; 
sweet-briar  and  southernwood,  that  boys  make  into 
posies  in  my  native  land  for  their  sweethearts  to 
carry  to  church ;  tall  orange  and  white  lilies,  and 
all  the  others  of  their  sweet  company. 

The  Refugees  cultivate  them  all  for  market,  and 
learn  of  them  the  while,  and  they  do  many  other 
things,  so  that  they  may  forget  the  past  in  the 


The  Measure  of  Life 


making  of  a  future.  Among  other  things  they  do 
laundry-work,  and  it  was  in  the  laundry  that  I  first 
saw  wild,  passionate,  beautiful  Perdita. 

I  only  had  one  glimpse  of  her  then,  and  another 
afterwards;  but  these  two  will  make  me  remember 
her  always,  though  not  one  word  of  her  history  is 
known  to  me  nor  yet  to  any  other  that  I  know. 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  laundry 
floor,  with  the  spring  sunshine  lighting  up  a  tumbled 
mass  of  waving  hair,  her  lined  face  tense  with  rage, 
her  black  eyes  blazing  with  passion.  Under  her  feet 
was  a  trampled  pile  of  fine  linen,  and  facing  her,  with 
the  scarlet  imprint  of  a  slender  hand  on  her  white 
cheek,  stood  Sister  Mary  John,  sweetest,  most  patient, 
most  holy  of  all  the  Sisters. 

Sister  Mary  John  has  eyes  like  the  grave, 
questioning  eyes  of  a  child ;  they  make  one  feel 
abashed,  remembering  one's  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  things  in  it,  because  they  seem  to  ask  a  question 
to  which  there  is  no  answer.  Yet  of  all  the  Sisters 
she  is  most  beloved. 

Perdita  returned  this  questioning,  wondering  look 
with  rage  and  defiance  for  just  so  long  as  one  might 
count  ten.  Then  suddenly  she  flung  herself  at  the 
Sister's  feet  and  was  sobbing  wildly,  desolately  there, 
as  if  all  repentance  were  futile  and  hopeless,  the 
sorrow  of  one  lost. 

32 


In  the  House  of  our  Lady  of  Pity 

Over  her  stooped  Sister  Mary  John,  and  drew  her 
to  her  feet,  with  a  whispered  word. 

There  was  a  long  sigh  through  the  wide,  airy 
room,  and  she  gathered  up  the  crumpled  garments, 
trodden  in  her  fierce  rage,  and  went  out  with  hanging 
head  and  downcast  eyes. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  had  come  to 
Benediction.  Benediction  in  that  house  is  more 
than  ever  a  sacred  mystery — it  suggests  so  much 
more  than  it  reveals.  The  little  church  was  once 
the  ball-room.  The  ceiling  is  still  painted  with  tiny 
Cupids,  blue-winged  and  pink,  that  peer  over  the 
cloud-edges  on  the  black-robed  nuns  and  their  sad 
following.  The  five  long  windows  open  on  the 
garden,  and  the  organ  is  in  the  musicianers'  gallery, 
quaint,  high,  and  dusky,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
long  apartment. 

Sister  Mary  John  plays  the  organ  and  trains  the 
choir.  The  singing  is  always  beautiful,  but  this  after- 
noon it  was  wonderful  indeed,  and  such  as  I  have 
never  heard  since. 

The  nuns  filed  silently  in,  and  after  them  the 
Refugees  :  faces  darkened  with  suffering,  faces 
disfigured  with  vice,  with  sensual  indulgences,  pale 
with  desperation,  remorse,  hopeless  longing — the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  off  the  ocean  of  life  cast  into  this 
quiet  harbourage. 

33  D 


The  Measure  of  Life 


High  in  the  carved  old  gallery  Sister  Mary 
John  made  strange  music;  a  company  of  nuns  on 
her  left,  on  her  right  a  tall,  slender  figure,  with  a 
thick  veil  of  black  baize  thrown  over  her  head  and 
face. 

I  knew  it  was  Perdita ;  but  that  veil,  for  no  reason 
at  all,  filled  me  with  a  vague  horror  of  what  was 
hidden  beneath  it.  The  mystery,  the  remoteness 
surrounding  it,  thrilled  me  curiously.  I  felt  fascinated, 
yet  feared  to  look. 

I  turned  to  the  altar  and  tried  to  forget  the 
mysterious  figure  by  the  organ.  The  old  priest  came 
in,  with  his  two  little  red-tuniced  acolytes,  one  on 
either  hand.  The  chill  wind  of  spring  was  singing  its 
song  of  roaming  among  the  daffodils  and  narcissi 
outside,  wafting  in,  between  the  puffs  of  lily-scent 
and  incense,  whisperings  of  wild,  tempest-riven  seas 
and  driving  foam. 

The  little  altar  was  ablaze  with  light  and  covered 
with  white  bloom.  The  priest  paused,  his  quavering 
old  voice  dying  abruptly.  The  organ  took  up  a  new 
theme,  and  out  from  behind  the  black  veil  came  a 
singing  like  that  of  seraphs  before  the  Throne — a 
voice  that  travelled  down  unimaginable  depths  of 
heartrending  entreaty  and  soared  in  crystal-clearness 
to  the  farthest  heights  of  song. 

"  Rosa  Mystica.    Ora  pro  nobis." 
34 


In  the  House  of  our  Lady  of  Pity 

The  nuns  in  their  stalls  sang,  the  little  girls 
clustered  between  the  doors,  the  nuns  in  the  gallery ; 
but  every  sound  was  gathered  up  and  swept  along  in 
the  high  triumphant  loveliness  of  that  wonderful 
great  singing  from  behind  the  baize  veil.  There  was 
no  room  in  all  the  wide  old  house  for  any  other 
sound. 

I  could  hear  it  echoing  through  all  the  wandering 
corridors,  in  all  the  sunny  rooms  where  wits  and 
rou£s,  beaux  and  belles  had  been  used  to  gather,  to 
gamble  and  pay  each  other  compliments,  to  plot  and 
plan  and  make  assignation.  I  could  picture  their 
blast  shades,  rushing  noiselessly  down  the  great 
carved  staircase  or  peering  wonderingly  over  the 
twisted  bannisters,  listening  to  that  irresistible  flood 
of  melody.  So  it  swept  on. 

"Agnus  Dei,  qui  tollis  peccata  mundi." 

The  words  soared  away  up  to  a  vast  height  of 
supplication,  sweet  with  entreaty,  overflowing  with 
passionate  sorrow — a  remorse  so  keen  that  its  edge 
cut  to  the  listener's  very  soul — sweet  beyond  all 
description,  unspeakably  miserable. 

It  broke  on  that  great  high  note  into  a  wild, 
harsh  cry,  almost  horrible  in  its  despair,  the  inarticu- 
late expression  of  a  crucified  heart. 

Sister  Mary  John  reached  forth  her  right  hand 
and  laid  it  on  the  singer's  arm.  She  fell  with  her 

35 


The  Measure  of  Life 


head  buried  on  the  nun's  knees,  and  the  organ  burst 
into  a  swelling  strain,  carrying  the  litany  on — 

"  Christe,  audi  nos  ! " 

And  Perdita  lay  still  across  the  nun's  knees,  as 
of  old  Magdalen  lay  on  the  Master's  feet,  and  I 
remembered  that  this  was  the  House  of  Our  Lady 
of  Pity — and  was  glad. 


PALINGENESIS 

TTLINOR'S  garden  is  shut  away  from  the  outside 
•*-'  world  by  high  walls  of  old  red-brick,  covered 
by  fruit  and  rose  trees.  It  is  a  strange  old  garden — 
here,  like  some  fragrant  wilderness,  overgrown, 
mossy,  and  sweet ;  there,  spread  into  velvety  lawns 
and  quaint  old  parterres,  little  rose-grown  arbours 
and  trellis-walks — a  delightful  place  to  think  in,  to 
muse  in,  to  be  glad  or  sorry  in.  It  is  very  like 
Elinor. 

That  kind  of  garden  takes  some  centuries  to 
make  ;  it  is  almost  as  complex  as  a  highly  organized 
temperament  in  a  beautiful  body.  In  that  respect  it 
reminds  me  most  of  its  owner,  for  she  and  her  loveli- 
ness are  almost  as  indefinable  as  the  garden.  In  it 
there  are  many  soft,  mossy  paths  edged  with  box, 
and  bordered  with  all  manner  of  sweet-smelling,  old- 
fashioned  flowers  and  herbs,  that  lead  nowhere. 
Perhaps  one  follows  them  eager  and  expectant,  and 
arrives  in  the  asparagus-bed,  or  among  the  melon- 
frames.  But,  as  Elinor  would  point  out  to  you,  the 
asparagus  is  like  a  cloud  of  feathery,  misty  sunshine, 

37 


The  Measure  of  Life 


that  has  strayed  and  been  forgotten  ;  and  beyond  the 
melon-frames,  the  cabbages  stand  out  against  the 
dark  soil  in  wonderful  tints  of  absolute  blue.  It  had 
occurred  to  me  on  various  occasions  that  cabbages 
were  really  blue  ;  but  one  has  not  the  courage  to 
mention  these  things — it  is  flying  in  the  face  of 
accepted  tradition.  So  something  was  gained  by 
following  that  narrow,  green  walk. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  one  may  wander  in 
Elinor's  garden  and  come  on  a  sight  so  beautiful 
that  it  haunts  the  mind  for  weeks  after — just  as  her 
strange  silences  and  little  monologues  do.  Her 
thoughts  are  strange  thoughts,  for  a  woman  wor- 
shipped and  cared  for  as  she  has  been,  wrapped 
about  by  love  from  the  lightest  wind,  with  all  the 
gratifications  that  wealth  and  position  can  bestow, 
that  great  personal  charm  and  beauty,  together  with 
a  golden  heart,  great  sympathy  and  goodness  can 
claim.  Her  slow,  noiseless  ways ;  her  soft  voice, 
pensive  and  clear,  with  its  sudden  notes  of  deep 
passion  ;  her  love  of  pale  tints  and  ,  filmy  laces,  and 
the  changing  lights  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  ; — all  fit  into 
the  old  garden  as  parts  of  the  picture.  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  her  ancestresses,  who  walked  in  it  through 
three  centuries,  were  any  one  of  them  so  picturesque 
and  charming  as  she. 

Her  life  is  permeated  by  a  passionless  calm,  a 
38 


Palingenesis 

soft  peace  and  dignity  that  seem  very  strange  to 
those  who  know  she  is  a  great  artist.  It  is  all  so 
curiously  out  of  proportion  in  itself,  for  there  is  no 
suggestion  of  struggle  in  her  or  her  surroundings. 
Her  career  as  a  painter  has  been  success  from  the 
beginning.  She  has  genius  ;  but  genius,  as  a  rule, 
does  not  flourish  in  the  sun.  It  demands  sterner 
climatic  influences.  I  wondered  how  it  had  grown 
and  been  nourished  in  the  garden,  till  yesterday, 
when  I  went  out  in  the  dusk  and  walked  with  Elinor 
in  the  luminous  afterglow  that  precedes  the  night. 
The  sun  had  gone  down  on  a  stormy  day ;  the  wind 
had  been  in  her  garden  and  strewn  it  with  golden 
leaves.  We  went  down  to  the  very  end  and  stood 
by  the  ivied  wall,  looking  away  over  the  cloudy 
asparagus  to  a  wide  expanse  of  sky,  saffron  dying 
into  dull  ochre,  barred  by  long  wisps  of  fine  scarlet 
cloud — dull,  uncannily  far  off,  and  yet  low.  The 
violet  mists  rising  off  the  flower-beds  seemed  to 
reach  to  the  top  of  the  wall  and  meet  the  sky  amid 
the  thinning  leaves.  Already  the  bare  outline  of  the 
trees  was  showing,  slim  and  graceful,  amid  the 
encarmined  foliage. 

"  This,"  said  Elinor,  "  is  like  a  fugue  by  Bach  or 
Scarlatti — crimson  and  gold  and  restful  harmonies, 
with  a  suggestion  of  past  storm  and  strife.  Bach  is 
the  musician  of  middle  age.  He  hushes  the  memories, 

39 


The  Measure  of  Life 


is  quiet  and  full  of  quaint  dignity  and  subtle  sops  to 
emotion.  Come  away  ;  let  us  go  to  the  roses." 

Her  face  showed  with  the  pale  clearness  of  a 
cameo  against  the  dark  furs  she  wore.  She  looked 
like  one  of  the  shadows  that  were  supposed  to  haunt 
that  very  path.  I  laid  hold  of  her  to  make  sure  of 
reality.  Something  in  her  perplexed  me.  In  any 
other  woman  I  would  have  recognized  it  at  once. 
But  in  Elinor  it  was  absurd.  Something  unfamiliar, 
obscure ;  there  was  a  revelation  of  tragical  strength 
and  tenacity  about  her  that  took  my  breath  away. 

Down  the  nut-walk,  under  the  hazels,  past  the  old 
yew  that  was  no  longer  young  when  Oliver  Cromwell 
stood  beneath  it  to  interrogate  Elinor's  ancestors  and 
namesake  concerning  the  White  King,  on  till  we 
came  to  the  glory  of  the  rose  garden,  the  arch  of 
sweet  maiden's  blush,  all  fragrant  with  a  late  glory 
of  pale  blossoms. 

"This  tree,"  quoth  I,  "thinks  it  is  June.  Yet 
there  is  a  difference.  What  is  it  ?  What  makes  the 
difference  between  the  rose  of  October  and  the  rose 
of  June  ? " 

"  The  difference  is,"  mused  Elinor,  softly,  "  that 
June  is  the  rose,  and  October  the  soul  of  the  rose — 
its  embodied  ghost." 

"  Have  roses  souls  ?  " 

"  We  all  have  souls.  You  will  call  that  Pantheism, 
40 


Palingenesis 

to  share  one's  soul  with  the  things  that  grow  out  of 
the  kindly  earth.  But  for  all  that,  I  am  very  conscious 
of  it  sometimes,  and  never  so  much  as  in  this  month 
of  the  year — the  twilight  of  the  year,  when  Nature 
settles  down  to  a  long  introspection.  As  for  the 
June  rose,  I  do  not  care  so  much  for  it.  It  is  too 
blatantly  conscious  of  its  youth  and  beauty.  But 
this  !  Look  at  it !  It  is  human.  Do  you  see  its 
pathos  ?  Look  past  the  outward  perfection  and 
colour  and  fragrance,  and  you  will  perceive  that  it 
blooms  too  late.  It  is  too  ethereal,  too  perishable. 
It  is  the  likeness  of  love  come  too  late.  It  is  the 
remembrance  of  a  power  unrecognized  till  it  was 
gone.  It  is  an  image  of  longing — regret.  Gather 
your  October  rose  and  it  is  shed,  its  petals  are  only 
held  together  by  the  memory  of  past  warmth  and 
sunshine. 

"Cruel  as  the  grave,"  says  the  Old  Book.  Did 
you  ever  ponder  on  the  cruelty  of  life  ?  Bitter  life ! 
that  takes  all  we  treasure.  Cynical  life  !  that  leaves 
us  only  that  which  must  be  endured.  Death,  it 
seems  to  me,  spares  the  things  too  light  for  it,  too 
small  for  immortality,  and  thrusts  them  into  our  arms 
while  they  ache  for  the  things  he  tears  away.  It  is 
strange  that  the  best  of  us  in  us  can  only  blossom  in 
the  autumn.  We  plant  it  in  June  .and  water  it 
with  tears  of  poignant  anguish  and  despair.  The 

41 


The  Measure  of  Life 


unspeakable  sorrow  of  youth.  Then  comes  the  long 
time  of  "  Between,"  when  we  have  lost  all  and  gained 
nothing  ;  when  we  hang  our  heads  in  the  sun  of  full 
summer,  flowerless  and  bare  of  all  but  the  dusty 
foliage  that  goes  to  hide  our  pain  ;  when  we  bear 
the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  in  silence.  On  the 
verge  of  our  winter  comes  the  second  blossoming — 
the  October  Rose  of  Life.  Its  beauty,  its  charm,  are 
all  undeniable — but  not  of  this  world.  Beauty  is 
always  sad,  but  the  October  rose  is  the  saddest  of  all 
sad  things,  because  we  know  it  is  Palingenesis — the 
flower  of  a  dead  happiness  raised  from  its  grey  ashes, 
purged  of  all  passion,  all  humanity,  all  hope. 

"  What  is  it  the  Persian  said  so  long  ago  ?  '  All 
changes  into  fire  and  fire  into  all — as  wares  into  gold 
and  gold  into  wares.'  The  October  bloom  of  many 
a  woman's  days  is  raised  in  its  loveliness  out  of  the 
hell-fires  that  once  raged  within  her.  Do  not  be 
shocked !  It  is  the  special  ordeal  of  woman,  that  as 
she  brought  hell  into  the  garden,  so  must  she  look 
once  in  her  life  out  of  the  garden  into  the  depths  of 
the  abyss.  We  all  know  it ;  we  all  have  endured  its 
devouring  flames  ;  otherwise  there  could  be  no 
Palingenesis." 

She  stooped  and  drew  aside  the  bloom-laden 
branches,  revealing  the  gnarled  and  twisted  stem 
from  which  they  sprang.  "  Who  would  think,"  she 

42 


Palingenesis 

went  on,  "  that  all  this  ugliness  was  hidden  beneath 
the  smooth  leaves  and  pale-pink  flowers  ?  Look  at 
its  tortured  convulsions,  its  crooked  twinings.  Had 
it  been  left  to  grow  as  Nature  meant,  it  would  have 
been  tall  and  straight.  But  convention  demanded  it 
should  cover  this  arch.  And  behold  what  the  iron 
hand  of  circumstance,  too  strong  for  rebellion,  has 
done.  There  !  Let  us  hide  it  again.  Being  a  rose 
it  bloomed  just  the  same,  perhaps  the  better  for  that 
inward  pain  and  flame.  Women  do  that  too ;  they 
are  trained  to  such  hideous  contraversion  of  nature, 
and  they  cover  it  up  with  flowers.  First  in  the  June 
of  their  lives,  when  the  nightingales  are  singing  in 
every  tree  and  the  world  swings  abrim  with  the  tide 
of  love.  The  nights  are  long  and  warm,  and  the 
garden  is  full  of  the  light  of  moon  and  stars.  Then, 
after  the  burden  and  heat,  the  beauty  and  charm  and 
fragrance  return  sevenfold,  and  every  one  looks  and 
sees  it  is  only  shadow — unreal — illusion. 

"  No  man  takes  the  October  rose  and  wears  it  on 
a  throbbing  heart.  It  is  the  bloodless  representation 
of  a  thing  dead.  No  one  quite  believes  in  it;  it  is 
illusion,  even  to  itself.  Good  works,  faith,  prayer, 
sympathies — these  are  the  sunshine  of  the  flower  that 
blooms  in  our  autumn,  and  makes  it  a  thing  of 
beauty  in  that  chilly  atmosphere.  It  assures  us  of 
immortality,  that  in  our  ashes  lies  the  perfection 

43 


The  Measure  of  Life 


of  ourselves,  instinct  for  another  summer.  But  those 
who  have  eyes  remember  the  fiery  flames  through 
which  it  has  come;  and  perhaps  that  is  well  also. 
It  is  dark  in  my  garden  ;  the  mauve  and  golden  have 
sunk  into  indigo.  Let  us  go  in  out  of  the  night." 


44 


THE   SHIP   OF   HEAVEN 

T  T  was  at  that  strange  time  in  the  night  when  the 
•*•  world  no  longer  sighs  in  his  sleep  but  lies  wrapt 
in  dreams.  There  are  but  few  sounds  in  the  world 
at  that  hour,  and  these  are  so  small  that  one  must 
needs  hearken  for  them  with  the  ears  of  the  soul, 
because  they  are  not  made  by  mortal  things,  but  by 
what  has  passed  beyond  to  another  plane. 

It  was  a  white  night ;  little  fleecy  clouds  had 
crept  unheeded  up  the  pathway  of  the  sky,  and  fine 
as  gossamer,  thin  and  small,  had  overhung  and 
covered  the  moon  till  the  heavens  looked  like  a 
dome  of  wavering,  shifting  white  light  Only  the 
yews  in  the  old  garden  stood  very  tall  and  straight, 
black  against  the  sky,  and  the  poplars  whispered 
softly,  though  no  wind  blew  among  their  loose- 
strung,  multitudinous  leaves,  silver-green  and  silver- 
grey  in  the  strange  light. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  below  the  broken 
marble  steps,  the  river  ran,  a  level  reflection  of  their 
quivering  foliage.  Along  its  sides  the  sedges  and 
reeds — tall  iris  and  silvery  water-lilies — mirrored 

45 


The  Measure  of  Life 


themselves  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  blackness  of 
the  slow  current.  In  its  centre,  where  the  water 
seemed  to  move  not  at  all,  the  white  clouds  drifted 
to  and  fro,  weaving  a  web  of  silence  over  the  remote 
hour. 

All  my  windows  stood  wide  to  the  June  night ;  I 
was  alone  in  the  House  of  Tears,  save  for  the  death- 
less shades  of  departed  folk,  sweeping  up  and  down 
the  stately  staircase,  or  through  the  faded  glories  of 
the  desolate  rooms,  where  once  they  had  feasted 
amid  joy  and  laughter. 

Even  as  the  old  house  looked  out  on  the  warm 
beauty  of  the  summer  night,  so  did  also  my  own 
soul,  isolate  and  lonely,  where  once  she  had  been  so 
surrounded  by  intimate  delights. 

A  moment  had  banished  me  from  my  peace — 
only  the  perfume  shaken  from  the  folds  of  an  old 
garment,  the  echo  of  a  voice  grown  cold,  and  I 
knew  there  is  no  oblivion,  the  spoken  word  lives  on 
and  travels  space  for  ever.  Yet  by-and-by,  when 
the  storm  had  overblown,  there  was  again  an  interval, 
passionless  and  serene,  when  I  sat  and  gazed  out  on 
the  white  night,  and  in  that  time  my  door  swung 
open  and  one  entered. 

I  knew  him  well,  the  Weaver  of  Dreams — Fion- 
tuin — Master  of  Illusion.  Once,  when  I  was  a 
little  child,  he  found  me  in  the  sea-mist  that  creeps 

46 


The  Ship  of  Heaven 


up  the  mountain-sides,  and  kissed  me  on  the  brow, 
on  the  eyes,  on  the  lips  ;  so  that  I  think  his  thoughts, 
and  see  his  dreams,  and  speak  only  of  those  things 
he  knows — remembering  always  and  forgetting 
nothing.  Those  whom  Fiontuin  takes  for  his 
own  never  completely  belong  to  the  earth.  They 
are  dual,  and  live  two  lives — one  with  him  in 
the  kingdom  of  fantasy,  and  the  other  vaguely 
and  uncomprehended  in  the  world. 

They  are  Dreamers  and  Poets,  Singers  and 
Painters,  Seers  and  Saviours — they  have  the  power 
to  feel  all  things — to  make  others  feel  all  things, 
to  see  and  make  others  see.  They  laugh  and  cry, 
and  the  world  laughs  and  weeps  with  them.  Yet  in 
their  hearts  they  dwell  apart,  removed  by  ineffable, 
unending  sorrow.  Great  joys  are  theirs,  boundless 
miseries,  infinite  delights  and  sufferings  unspeak- 
able. They  move  the  mountains,  the  song  of  the 
lark  snatches  them  into  ecstasy,  and  the  prick  of  a 
pin  brings  the  agonies  of  death.  This  because  they 
belong  to  the  Master  of  Illusion,  and  are  what  he 
wills.  Fiontuin  is  immortally  young ;  his  face  is 
dark  and  pale,  his  hair  black  as  night,  his  eyes  are 
purplish-grey,  his  lips  are  cruel,  but  in  his  eyes  lurks 
laughter  always — laughter  and  pity,  love  and  pride. 
All  love  Fiontuin,  but  he  loves  few — and  only 
those  who  know  him  for  what  he  is. 

A7 


The  Measure  of  Life 


He  played  upon  a  little  pipe,  made  of  a  reed 
from  the  river — greyish-green  it  was,  as  if  but  newly 
plucked  from  its  cool  roots — and  the  song  was  like 
the  cry  of  the  plover,  what  time  it  circles  under  the 
low  sky  above  the  shadowy  boglands  in  the  dreadful 
hour  before  the  dawn. 

"  Come  with  me,  Ashore,"  he  said.  "  Come 
out  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  a  beautiful 
thing." 

"  I  am  weary  of  dreams,"  I  cried.  "  I  will  go 
with  you  no  more.  I  have  eaten  Dead  Sea  fruit, 
and  the  taste  is  bitter.  I  gathered  it  in  the  land  of 
dreams.  Leave  me,  Fiontuin ;  only  the  white 
night  is  truly  mine." 

"The  sun  will  rise,"  sang  Fiontuin,  "in  a  sky 
of  rose." 

"  There  will  be  no  more  sun  with  me,"  I  thought. 
"  I  have  spent  my  life  in  visions,  and  disillusion  is 
mine.  I  am  awake,  Fiontuin  ;  I  will  go  with  you 
no  more.  Leave  me." 

He  laughed  as  he  stood  before  me  in  the  white 
light,  the  reed-pipe  at  his  lips,  and  his  white  fingers 
lifting  off  the  holes,  in  a  melody  sweet  as  the  sound 
of  the  sea  on  a  summer  eve  when  it  turns  shorewards 
over  the  stones.  I  could  hear  the  slow  drops  from 
my  own  heart  as  he  played,  for  the  song  was  my 
own,  made  on  a  vanished  day. 

48 


The  Ship  of  Heaven 


"  Yet  come,"  quoth  he,  "  and  I  will  show  you  a 
wonderful  thing." 

But  I  would  not  go.  Disillusion  was  very  bitter, 
and  my  dream  had  been  the  most  beautiful  dream 
in  all  the  world.  A  cruel  hand,  relentless  and 
vindictive,  had  taken  and  dashed  it  from  a  great 
height,  so  that  it  lay  in  fragments.  My  happiness 
had  become  like  the  fairy  money — withered  leaves, 
shrivelled  blossoms,  an  evanescent  perfume. 

The  gossamer  clouds  drove  apart,  and  the  moon 
looked  down  on  Fiontuin  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  ancient  carving  on  the  wall,  his  eyes  like 
wells  of  violet  light,  luminous  with  pitying  laughter. 

"Oh,  foolish  one!"  he  cried.  "Only  at  one 
touchstone  doth  happiness  melt  away  into  nothing- 
ness and  dissolve — and  that  is  gold.  Only  a  child 
of  mine  would  have  weighed  love  against  riches,  and 
looked  to  see  riches  touch  the  beam  ! " 

He  laughed  aloud.  His  moods  are  like  the 
wind;  like  his  laughter  the  wind  came  up  to  him, 
driving  the  white  clouds  before  it,  billows  of 
snowy  foam  on  a  high  sea  of  blue. 

"  And  still,"  whispered  Fiontuin,  bending  down 
to  me,  the  little  pipe  against  his  crimson  lips,  "  I 
will  show  you  the  Ship  of  Heaven." 

He  went  across  the  polished  floor,  casting  no 
shadow  on  its  slippery  surface,  his  skin-shod  feet 

49  E 


The  Measure  of  Life 


making  no  sound ;  beautiful,  young,  immortal  he 
stood  in  the  dark  doorway,  mocking  my  sorrow  with 
his  tender  smile. 

Yet  I  feared  to  go  ;  for  the  bitterness  of  remem- 
bered joy,  is  sweeter  than  the  anticipation  of  new 
happiness,  because  the  thing  lost  has  been  ours,  the 
other  never  may  be. 

He  stood  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  playing 
on  the  little  pipe  such  notes  of  strange,  compelling 
sweetness  that  I  could  not  choose  but  go.  A  great 
longing  sprang  up  in  me  to  see  the  Ship  of  Heaven. 
Perchance  I  too  might  take  passage  therein  ;  and 
this  even  though  I  knew  Fiontuin  well,  and  that 
his  promises  were  like  the  vows  of  love — no  more 
remembered  after  being  spoken. 

I  followed  him  through  the  echoing  rooms,  down 
silent  corridors  where  the  moonbeams  played  across 
the  boards  in  prismatic  glimmerings  through  the 
cobwebbed  glass,  down  the  great  staircase  where 
the  shadows  wandered  up  and  down  noiselessly, 
across  the  black  and  white  marble  of  the  hall,  out 
into  the  balmy  sweetness  of  the  June  night. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  breath  of  roses,  with 
the  odour  of  clove-pinks,  daphne,  and  syringa,  with 
honeysuckle  ;  they  brought  me  fresh  access  of  misery, 
for  all  these  sweetnesses  had  once  been  a  part  of  my 
joy,  and  poignantly  recalled  its  loss. 

50 


The  Ship  of  Heaven 


Fiontuin  laughed  again,  and  the  wind  hastened 
to  hear  him.  Close  by  my  side,  he  took  me  down 
between  the  rows  of  tall,  swaying  yews  and  whisper- 
ing poplars,  where  the  moonlight  came  furtively  and 
was  lost  in  the  interlacing  shadows  on  the  sandy  path. 
Down  by  the  river-edge  at  the  broken  steps  lay  the 
Ship  of  Heaven.  Her  hull  was  like  hot  gold,  her 
sides  were  hung  with  long  streamers  of  white  cloud, 
her  cordage  lines  of  gleaming  light,  white  and  fine. 
Her  sails  were  like  the  white  mist  that  comes  puffing 
off  the  sea,  full  in  the  scented  wind ;  her  decks  ashine 
like  polished  silver  strewn  with  woven  silks  and 
fabrics  wrought  with  jewels.  Garlands  of  amaranth 
and  asphodel  hung  over  her  sides,  and  all  such 
flowers  as  grow  upon  the  plains  of  Paradise.  Her 
masts  were  thin  spires  of  glass  ;  her  bowsprit  a 
fine  shaft  of  white  light  topped  by  a  star.  She 
lay  among  the  reeds  and  iris,  with  the  willows 
reaching  down  to  her,  a  vision  of  amazing  loveliness, 
a  wonder  of  white  fire. 

But  on  her  decks  was  no  living  soul ;  no  angel 
looked  from  her  burnished  sides ;  she  swung  on  the 
reluctant  tide,  no  hand  upon  the  tiller. 

"  Is  there  no  crew  for  the  Ship  of  Heaven  ? "  I 
questioned  in  perplexity. 

Fiontuin  laughed  aloud,  and  shook  back  his 
long  black  hair. 

51 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  She  sails  alone,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  lo !  hither 
come  the  voyagers." 

A  little  child — a  little  slender  child,  in  a  worn 
brown  frock,  came  dancing  down  the  pathway  from 
the  open  doorway  of  the  House  of  Tears.  She  was 
a  thin  little  maid,  with  wide  eyes  and  flowing  hair. 
Thin  and  pale  she  was,  and  as  the  moonlight  fell 
through  the  interweaving  shadows  about  her  feet 
she  danced  to  it,  as  if  it  were  alive  and  her  play- 
mate. When  the  wind  caught  her  long  hair  and 
spread  it  out  about  her,  she  wheeled  and  whirled  as 
if  the  wind  were  a  playmate  also.  Fiontuin  blew 
a  long,  keen  note  as  she  passed,  and  I  remembered 
— Remembered  her  lonely,  neglected  childhood,  shut 
up  in  the  old  house,  with  no  friends  save  the  wind 
and  the  trees  and  flowers,  and  thought  of  how  Fion- 
tuin visited  her  and  brought  her  happiness — ah !  a 
long  time  ago. 

She  fled  along  the  white  gangway  that  lay 
between  the  old  steps  and  the  Ship  of  Heaven, 
smiling  at  me  as  she  went,  and  past  me  at  the 
throng  behind  her.  After  her  came  a  hurrying 
crowd,  strange  and  motley — men  with  hard  faces 
and  stern  lips,  women  weary  and  haggard,  youths 
and  maidens,  old  men  and  bowed  old  women,  and 
all  bearing  the  marks  of  conflict,  suffering,  sorrow, 
or  great  poverty ;  some  wearing  rich  clothes  and 

52 


The  Ship  of  Heaven 


precious  jewels,  all  with  the  same  rapt  expression, 
as  if  they  beheld  the  desire  of  their  eyes  and  were 
hastening  towards  it. 

As  they  passed,  Fiontuin  played  on  his  reed- 
pipe  ;  now  it  was  like  a  mother  crooning  to  the  baby 
at  her  breast,  now  it  was  a  woman  calling  to  her 
lover,  now  a  man's  voice,  passionate  and  rich,  and 
now  the  murmur  of  a  child.  He  knows  all  sounds, 
all  words;  as  he  ringers  his  flute  he  plays  on  our 
hearts,  making  melody  of  what  is  in  us. 

Silently  they  passed  on  the  Ship  of  Heaven  till 
her  shining  decks  were  covered. 

"  Where,"  I  questioned,  "  on  this  little  river  is  the 
Port  of  Heaven  ?  " 

The  wind  blew  out  the  streamers  and  the  ship 
flamed  on  the  night  like  a  glory. 

"The  Port  of  Heaven,"  echoed  Fiontuin,  "lies 
in  each  human  heart ;  but  the  river  winds  and  twines 
so  that  only  this  ship  can  navigate  it." 

"But  if  Heaven  lies  in  each  heart,  wherefore 
journey  in  this  ship?"  asked  I. 

Fiontuin  put  the  pipe  to  his  lips  and  danced  to 
its  music  as  the  child  had  danced  to  the  moonlight 
He  came  near  and  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  his 
voice  had  the  sweetness  of  the  blackbird's  note  in 
that  little  dusk  that  comes  after  the  dawn. 

"  The  ship,"  he  laughed,  "  they  could  not  go  without 
53 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  ship,  for  these  are  the  Disinherited  who  depend 
on  the  charity  of  my  children  for  their  dreams.  And 
the  ship  is  a  child's  thought  The  little  child — do 
you  remember  her,  Avourneen ? — who. danced.  She 
told  the  dream  to  a  singer,  so  that  many  heard,  and 
it  became  the  thing  you  see,  a  vessel,  splendid  and 
glorious  to  carry  these,  the  Disinherited,  to  their  lost 
kingdom.  They  will  awake,  these  poor  ones,  and 
some  will  recall  the  glimpse  they  had  of  immortality. 
Some  will  remember  but  a  little ;  some  will  only  be 
heavy  burdened  with  the  knowledge  of  their  dream, 
but  so  full  of  sordid  aims  that  they  only  grasp  after 
the  sweetness. of  its  intangible  beauty  in  vain.  What 
I  would  ask  you ;  what  are  riches — the  riches  you 
longed  for  a  space  since — in  comparison  with  the 
pure  splendour  of  a  child's  thought  ?  Is  it  a  less 
precious  thing  than  a  purchased  love  ? 

I  looked  after  the  Ship  of  Heaven,  with  wide-set 
sails,  spreading  golden  effulgence  on  the  dark,  slow 
waters  as  it  sped  swiftly  on  with  its  burden  of 
haggard,  wretched  humanity.  All  the  skylarks  awoke 
and  fled  heavenwards  as  the  light  fell  on  their  grassy 
nests,  thinking  the  sun  had  come,  so  that  the  ship 
was  heralded  by  music  such  as  greets  the  day.  The 
wind  puffed  after  it,  swaying  the  trees  and  shaking 
the  perfume  from  each  sleeping  flower. 

"  The  riches  come  and  pass.  Who  has  them  ? " 
54 


The  Ship  of  Heaven 


asked  Fiontuin.  "What  brings  happiness?  Only 
dreams,  only  thoughts.  All,  all  is  my  handiwork. 
Nothing  is  real  save  the  thought  that  frees  the  soul 
from  its  bonds  of  flesh  and  sets  it  voyaging  on  the 
Ship  of  Heaven.  There  is  no  reality,  save  Love." 

Afar  in  the  darkness  the  Ship  shone  like  a  star, 
the  clouds  came  over  the  moon  again,  and  the  night 
drew  white,  the  wind  waxed  riotous  among  the 
branches  and  set  them  swinging  wildly ;  the  leaves 
murmured  like  heavy  rain. 

I  turned  back  to  the  House  of  Tears,  and  on 
the  threshold  stood  a  tall  angel  with  folded  wings. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  whispered,  "  where  is  Heaven  ? " 

"  Deep  in  each  heart,"  said  the  angel. 

"  And  who  may  go  in  ?  " 

"  Only  the  pure." 

"Alas !  "  I  cried.     "  Who  is  pure  in  heart  ? " 

"Those  who  go  in  by  the  Gate  of  Sorrow,"  he 
answered  ;  and,  as  he  stood  aside  to  let  me  pass,  I 
saw  in  his  hand  the  grey-green  reed,  and  knew  him 
once  again. 

"  Oh,  Master  of  Illusion  ! " 

"Aye!"  he  laughed,  blowing  a  new  note.  "All, 
all  is  illusion.  I  have  seen  all  things  come  and  all 
things  pass.  There  is  no  reality,  save  that  which  is 
thee.  The  soul  alone,  that  is  thee.  Only  in  dreams 
is  truth,  only  in  dreams  is  happiness.  I  govern  all 

55 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  world  ;  kings  and  princes,  powers  and  princi- 
palities bow  before  me.  I  bring  their  dreams  ;  I  am 
the  only  Beloved.  The  best  of  every  heart,  of  every 
soul,  is  mine.  Cease  to  look  back  on  what  is  lost ; 
it  never  was  thine,  else  it  would  be  thine  still.  We 
can  only  lose  the  thing  that  is  not  our  own.  Dreams 
are  best.  Send  them  out  like  the  Ship  of  Heaven  to 
carry  the  disinherited.  Farewell ! " 

"  Stay ! "  I  entreated. 

"  Nay,"  he  said ;  "  since  thou  wouldst  still  say 
that  if  I  remained  for  ever.  Farewell,  the  night 
calls  me ! " 

I  heard  his  reed-pipe  as  I  climbed  the  stair 
among  the  hurrying  shadows  and  looked  out  on  the 
garden  from  my  window.  Afar,  on  the  edge  of  the 
world,  glowed  a  great  lone  star ;  I  knew  it  was 
the  Ship  of  Heaven,  with  her  cargo  of  weary  souls. 
From  the  wind-blown  trees  came  the  tremulous  song 
of  the  thrush  awaking  to  a  new  day. 


"FOR   AS   THE   SOUL   DOTH 
RULE  " 

TT  was  almost  dusk  when  I  came  to  the  little  bridge 

and  stood  for  a  moment  to  take  in  the  picture. 

On  the  left  lay  the  mirror-like  stretch  of  the  reluctant 

Brent,  unruffled  and  slow,  with  the  barges  piled  along 

its  lowermost  reach,  filling  up  the  perspective  with 

smoky  browns   and   dull  reds  ;  beyond,   the  green 

fields  and  orchards  darkly  crimsoning  to  the  coming 

spring. 

On  the  right  lay  a  wide  expanse  of  cultivated 
land,  bounded  along  the  towpath  by  a  thick  hedge 
of  thorns,  and  running  a  brief  course  into  the  furrows 
was  a  tiny  branch  of  the  river,  crossed  by  the  little 
bridge  on  which  I  stood. 

On  the  edge  of  the  water  the  hedger  had  made  a 
great  fire  of  thorns ;  they  blazed  up  in  the  dusky 
atmosphere  with  a  merry  crackle,  reminding  me  of 
the  Wise  Man's  contemptuous  simile  ;  beside  it  stood 
the  hedger,  pressing  down  with  his  fork  a  fresh 
addition  to  the  flame. 

He  was  a  tall,  old  man,  stooping  forward  a  little 
57 


The  Measure  of  Life 


as  if  feeling  the  burden  of  his  age,  but  bearing  it  with 
a  contented  cheerfulness.  His  legs  were  encased  in 
leathern  gaiters  and  his  hands  in  clumsy  leathern 
gloves.  His  face  in  the  firelight  showed  ruddy  and 
wrinkled,  but  the  eyes  were  gay,  and  the  mouth 
had  an  upward  curve  that  bespoke  an  unregretting 
mind. 

His  tall,  old  figure,  holding  the  thorn-fire  down  at 
the  end  of  the  pitchfork,  was  outlined  against  a  vague 
distance  of  dim  violet  brown,  the  colour  of  the  up- 
turned earth,  lined  in  wavering  furrows  with  grey- 
green,  the  young  vegetables  just  planted  and  still 
drooping  in  the  February  airs.  The  hedges  melted 
away  into  warm  mauves  and  dim  browns  and  reds,  as 
if  the  fields  were  some  illimitable  steppe  heaved  up 
against  a  mysterious  sky  full  of  drifting  pearly  cloud, 
slow  as  the  dreaming  river. 

A  woman  came  out  of  the  obscurity  behind  the 
fire  and  stood  beside  him  without  speaking — an  old 
woman,  dressed  with  a  tidiness  that  was  almost 
exquisite.  Her  curt  petticoat  showed  a  pair  of  small 
slender  feet  in  Lancashire  clogs.  Her  thin  bosom 
was  crossed  by  a  tartan  shawl,  the  ends  tucked  into 
her  belt.  There  was  a  white  kerchief  round  her 
shrivelled  neck,  and  a  black  sunbonnet  on  her  thick 
white  hair.  Her  features  were  fine  and  regular, 
and  her  eyes  sweet  with  content ;  her  expression 

53 


"  For  as  the  Soul  doth  Rule  " 

such  as  one  sees  in  the  old  Italian  pictures  of  the 
Madonna. 

She  had  a  hoe  in  one  hand,  and  she  leaned  against 
it  as  she  stood,  evidently  weary  after  long  work  on 
the  brown  furrows. 

The  man  put  one  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her 
back  till  her  head  rested  against  his  shoulder.  "  Tired, 
owd  lass  ? "  he  asked. 

"Aye,  lad,"  she  said  contentedly,  "just  a  bit." 

"  Well,"  he  told  her  comfortably,  "  we'll  be  goin' 
now — there  isn't  more'n  a  handful ; "  and  he  pressed 
down  the  crackling  thorns  on  the  fire. 

"  Sit  'ee  down,"  he  said  suddenly,  spreading  a  sack 
for  her  on  the  withered  grass.  She  sat  down,  and 
looked,  with  her  chin  in  her  withered  hands,  at  the 
glowing  fire.  The  flames  leaped  over  the  smouldering 
redness  below,  singing,  sinking  till  it  was  only  a  heap 
of  drifting  ashes,  light,  almost  impalpable,  flying  on 
the  dusk  like  fairy  snow. 

"  Ready,  Jinny  ? "  He  held  out  a  hand  to  assist 
her  to  her  feet. 

"  Aye,  Geordie."  She  lingered,  looking  on  the 
smouldering  pile  of  burnt  thorn.  At  that  moment 
a  blackbird  began  piping  through  the  dusk  from  a 
tree  across  the  river,  riotously  jubilant,  as  the 
blackbird  always  is  when  he  thinks  of  spring.  "  O-o 
O-o !  Lo-o-ove.  Joy  !  joy !  joy ! " 

59 


The  Measure  of  Life 


The  woman  smiled  up  in  the  man's  face.  "  Hark 
to  that ! "  she  said  softly  ;  and  into  her  face  flashed  for 
an  instant  all  the  beauty  of  her  long-past  youth. 

"He'll  be  thinkin*  of  warmer  weather  belike." 
The  man  looked  up  with  a  whimsical  expression  at 
the  tree-tops,  and  a  barge  came  slowly  out  of  the 
dusk,  its  lights  lingering  down  to  the  river-bed  in 
quivering  scarlet  lines. 

A  boy  poleing  from  the  sides  was  singing  to  him- 
self quietly.  The  words  came  sweet  and  clear  as  the 
blackbird's  note — 

"  I  think  of  Jinny  with  the  light  brown  hair ; 
Her  face  is  in  my  heart,  and  I  see  her  everywhere." 

Geordie  stooped  at  the  sound  and  touched  the  old 
woman's  lined  cheek  with  his  lips,  and  she  laughed 
softly  as  they  moved  off  together  across  the  loose 
brown  loam.  It  was  near  the  end  of  their  day — a 
day  begun  with  labour  in  the  fields,  and  which  found 
them  at  its  close  field  labourers  still — he  hedging  and 
ditching;  she  hoeing,  weeding  and  transplanting — a 
son  and  daughter  of  Mother  Earth. 

Want  had  been  their  portion  often.  How  could  it 
but  be  so?  Poverty  always,  and  unceasing  toil.  But 
that  thing  more  precious  than  crowns  or  thrones  or 
wealth  incalculable,  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world 
that  must  be  given  and  cannot  be  bought,  was  theirs 
— Love. 

60 


"For  as  the  Soul  doth  Rule" 

"  Joy  !  joy  !  joy ! "  sang  the  blackbird  after  them. 
«  Ooee !  Ooee !  Joy !  " 

There  had  been  a  contented  joy  in  the  woman's 
laugh,  a  deeper  content  in  the  man's  tone,  as  they 
vanished  together  into  the  amethystine  shadows.  I 
wondered  what  had  kept  the  joy  and  content  from 
the  dawn  of  their  lives  till  now  that  it  was  so  near  the 
night ! 

I  wondered  if  the  simple  life  is  not,  after  all,  the 
best  life,  the  one  that  leaves  most  in  the  end  ?  Amid 
the  striving  after  riches,  the  noise  and  clamour  of 
countless  battle-cries,  this  quiet  happiness  in  the 
fields  seemed  a  marvellous  thing. 

Do  riches  bring  indifference  ?  and  power  that 
fulness  of  gratification  which  kills  desire,  and  leaves 
the  mind  all  emptiness  ?  When  even  the  wise  have 
gained  all,  it  brings  but  loathing.  The  grasshopper  is 
a  burden ;  the  cistern  holds  no  water.  Boundless 
desire  brings  but  the  illimitable  melancholy  of  satiety. 

The  day's  work  brings  the  day's  happiness,  the 
night's  deep  slumber  and  content.  The  primeval 
curse  was  also  the  primal  blessing.  The  best  of  all 
lives  is  that  spent  in  work  for  those  we  love.  The 
idler  can  never  know  the  sweetness  of  love  gained  by 
sheer  worth.  His  days  cannot  be  brightened  by  a 
tenderness  unbought,  unsought,  coming  in  youth  to 
ask,  "  Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? "  and  making 

61 


The  Measure  of  Life 


its  home  in  the  heart  for  aye.  The  old  song  had 
brought  to  Geordie  a  vision  of  what  time  his  Jinny's 
hair  was  amber-tinted  like  the  morn,  and  even  I,  who 
knew  her  not,  had  seen  the  beauty  of  her  soul  looking 
forth  from  its  darkened  cottage.  The  mere  physical 
loveliness  decays  and  is  no  more,  even  in  remem- 
brance, unless  that  soul-beauty  lies  behind.  Their 
lives  had  been  spent  near  the  brown  earth,  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  upturned  soil  in  their  nostrils,  the 
growing  things  ever  under  their  eyes,  all  the  in- 
numerous  secrets  of  Nature  told  in  their  listening 
ear. 

The  birds'  songs,  the  wind  songs,  the  rain  in  their 
faces  in  sun  and  shower,  they  had  worked  on  till  the 
tale  of  years  was  almost  spent.  Presently  they  would 
go  down  together  to  sleep  in  the  placid  bosom  of 
their  Mother,  and  be  at  rest.  Sun  and  wind  and 
driving  cloud  would  sweep  over  them,  and  they 
oblivious  to  them  all,  their  time  being  sped. 

"In  great  wealth,"  say  the  Brown  People,  "is 
much  forgetfulness."  Perhaps.  It  might  be  possible 
to  remember  if  one  had  great  possessions,  but  not 
very  probable.  And  riches  cannot  buy  love  nor  yet 
content. 

In  the  old  Morality  play  Everyman  goes  down  to 
his  grave,  having  appealed  in  vain  to  kinsfolk  and 
riches,  strength,  beauty,  discretion,  and  wit.  All 

62 


"For  as  the  Soul  doth  Rule" 

leave  him  at  the  last  save  Good  Deeds  alone,  who  will 
accompany  him  to  his  dread  reckoning.  But  there  is 
one  other  that  must  have  gone  down  with  him  to  the 
"  low  house " — and  that,  Love.  Love  that  many 
waters  cannot  quench,  that  is  stronger  than  the  grave 
and  victorious  over  Death. 

A  little  wind  came  up  and  stirred  the  white  ashes 
off  the  dying  fire  and  covered  me  with  soft  flakes  of 
fine  ash.  It  reminded  me  somehow  of  a  story  beloved 
in  my  childhood — 

"Snip,  snap,  snurre,  Basselure!  The  song  is 
ended." 

But  we  who  know,  find  it  has  but  begun. 


THE   WATERS   OF   TIR-NA-OGE 

«  T  MM ATERI AL  things,"  says  Plato,  "  are  the 
•*•  highest  and  greatest  —  and  only  show  in 
thought  and  idea."  Whether  the  thought  comes  in 
what  we  call  waking  or  what  we,  for  the  want  of 
knowledge,  call  dreaming  is  irrelevant.  It  is  another 
and  more  subtle  thinker  who  declares  definitely 
that  "only  the  idea  is  real."  The  thought  alone 
has  actual  life  and  being.  And  there  is  yet  another 
thinker  who  asks,  "  Can  thought  originate  within 
us  ? "  doubting  the  fact,  proving  its  impossibility. 
"  All  life  is  but  a  dream,"  says  he  ;  "  thought,  a 
remembering  from  a  far  time  passed  by." 

Those  who  read  Homer  might  think  this  the 
truest  of  all  sayings — those  who  read  Shakespeare, 
Virgil,  Ben  Jonson,  Empedocles,  or  Pythagoras ; 
because  the  vividness  of  their  style  and  diction  is 
not  so  much  creation  as  the  impassioned  recital  of 
the  one  who  has  seen  and  remembers.  Empedocles 
frankly  acknowledges  that  he  does  remember.  He 
alone  out  of  all  those  who  sway  the  world  of  thought 
can  return  with  certainty  and  recall  what  he  was. 

64 


The  Waters  of  Tir^na^oge 


There  is  an  old  Erse  legend,  that  those  who  sing 
as  Homer  sang  have  drunk  deep  of  the  waters  that 
flow  through  Tir-na-oge,  "  land  of  immortal  youth." 
These  cannot  forget,  for  with  that  draught  in  their 
veins  they  are  half  in  the  land  of  dream  while  living 
in  the  land  of  fact. 

They  can  lay  hold  of  the  minds  of  men  and  show 
them  what  they  will,  lull  them  to  peace  with  visions 
of  love  and  beauty,  or  rack  them  as  with  fire  and 
sword. 

"  With  wasting  fury,  as  a  flood  of  flame 
Rolls  o'er  the  ground — its  waves." 

When  one  speaks  with  effect  like  that,  make  sure  he 
has  drunk  deep  of  the  waters  of  Tir-na-oge,  and  is 
but  remembering  what  he  has  seen.  It  is  the  idea 
put  into  deathless  being. 

And  that  man  may  die,  but  his  words  will  live 
on,  governing  men's  minds,  holding  and  guiding ; 
driving  them  to  deeds  of  heroic  valour,  to  splendid 
self-sacrifice  or  glorious  bravery.  Great  souls  who 
have  this  power  know  but  little  of  the  riches  or 
splendours  of  this  world  they  inhabit  for  the  time. 
They  have  wooed  Liban,  daughter  of  the  Wave. 
Theirs  are  loneliness  and  suffering — want,  perhaps, 
and  poverty  ;  to  be  scorned  and  passed  by,  to 
travel  on  foot  while  vanity  and  insolence  flaunt  on 
soft  cushions  along  the  way.  But  little  they  mind 

65  F 


The  Measure  of  Life 


who  have  tasted  the  sweetness  of  heather  ale  and 
eaten  of  the  Fairy  banquet,  spread  under  the  green 
gloom  of  Tir-na-oge,  among  the  Deathless  Folk, 
while  the  birds  sing  in  the  blue. 

Even  to  those  who  have  it  not,  it  is  apparent 
that  what  sways  the  world  is  not  of  it,  but  belongs 
to  the  Immaterial,  the  Spiritual,  and  has  no  kinship 
with  the  mortal  part  at  all.  The  souls  of  men 
recognize  the  abstract  idea,  and  bow  down  to  it.  It 
is  the  idea  alone  that  forces  men  to  great  acts, 
to  mortification  and  endurance,  to  nobility  of  aim 
and  end — the  soul  striving  to  subdue  the  body  that 
it  may  enter  into  its  inheritance,  and  remember. 

Once,  while  I  had  no  thought  of  such  happen- 
ing, I  met  one  who  remembered.  I  think  she  must 
have  remembered  from  the  beginning,  as  those  do 
who  have  drunk  often  of  the  Waters  of  Dream.  With 
most  of  us  the  soul-memory  is  brief  and  transient. 
We  are  suddenly  about  to  see  all  when  the  spiritual 
impulse  is  gone.  The  curtain  of  oblivion  drops  and 
the  soul-memory  is  darkened.  It  may  be  that  the 
veil  of  flesh  is  too  heavy  to  be  held  apart,  unless  it 
is  worn  thin  by  long  suffering  and  tears,  by  many 
journeys  through  the  cobwebbed  gate  which  opens 
on  the  past. 

But  this  one  of  whom  I  am  about  to  speak 
remembered  clearly,  and  spoke  with  certainty  of 

66 


The  Waters  of  Tiivna-oge 


what  she  knew.  While  her  feet  yet  pressed  the 
ways  of  life,  she  looked  back  on  what  she  had 
passed,  and  saw  it  all. 

There  had  been  a  great  storm  the  night  before 
— wind  and  hail,  lightning  and  thunderings.  Across 
the  river  a  line  of  ancient  apple  trees,  that  had  been 
my  delight  in  the  spring  and  early  summer,  was 
marked  by  gaps,  where  the  storm  had  laid  one 
prostrate  here  and  there.  It  was  in  the  dusk  of 
the  twilight,  and  I  had  paused  to  look  at  the  line 
of  scarlet  fire,  drawn  athwart  the  pearly  blueness 
of  the  mists  rising  off  the  fields  below  the  tender 
chrysoprase  of  the  still  summer  sky.  Little  whirls 
of  pale  blue  smoke  were  rising  from  the  cottages 
below  the  bridge ;  long  lights  trembled  down  to  the 
river-bed  from  the  deep-laden  barges  in  the  lock. 
Men  and  women  sat  indolently  enjoying  the  calm 
of  the  evening  hour.  The  silence  lay  down  there 
deep  and  still,  as  if  civilization  were  not  thundering 
by,  twenty  yards  off,  impelled  to  speed  by  the 
harnessed  fires  of  heaven. 

A  woman  came  up  with  a  long,  smooth  tread 
and  halted  beside  me  to  look  down  on  the  level 
river,  reflecting  all  the  heights  of  the  calm  heavens. 
A  tall  woman,  whose  hair  beneath  her  cotton  sun- 
bonnet  lay  white  as  the  rime  of  winter,  whose  high, 
delicate  features  showed  clear  as  a  cameo  against 

67 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  dusk,  almost  luminous  against  the  dark  old 
buildings  over  the  river.  Her  eyes  shone  darkly 
beneath  black  brows,  thin  and  level ;  her  mouth  was 
firm  but  very  sweet. 

She  balanced  a  bundle  of  apple-twigs  on  the 
grey  stone  parapet,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  with 
a  strange  smile,  the  smile  of  one  who  knew  me  well. 
I  saw  her  hands  were  stained  with  soil,  her  grey 
dress  was  fragrant  of  the  earth.  I  remembered 
having  seen  her  stooping  over  the  weeding  in  the 
fields  along  the  towpath. 

"  You  are  taking  home  a  fire,"  I  said,  touching 
the  apple-twigs. 

She  smiled  down  on  me,  serenely  dignified,  and 
I  seemed  to  know  that  smile  dear  and  familiar. 

"  When  the  nights  close  in  early,"  she  replied  in 
a  soft,  far-off  voice,  "  a  fire  is  good  to  look  at  in  the 
loneliness." 

"  The  river  also,"  I  went  on,  though  that  I  should 
have  said  such  a  thing  to  one  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before  did  not  occur  to  me  as  strange  at  that  time. 
"  The  river  recalls  much  to  me." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  the  mirror-like  level  where 
the  barges  lay  clustered  together. 

"I  remember  this  place  also,"  she  said  ab- 
stractedly, as  one  who  recollects  a  vanished  sorrow. 
"  The  tall-necked  galleys  lay  among  the  grey  reeds 

68 


The  Waters  of  Tir^na^oge 


along  the  shore.  It  was  later  dusk  than  this,  with 
a  new  moon,  faint  and  white,  and  we  hid  in  the 
rushes,  waiting,  waiting.  The  ford  was  red,  and 
only  a  few  of  us  remained." 

She  pushed  her  bundle  of  apple-twigs  a  little  on 
one  side  and  looked  down  across  the  water. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  past,"  she  mused  softly.  "  It 
was  deeper  then,  and  wider.  The  lush  meadows  are 
gone,  the  wind  no  longer  whispers  in  the  rushes  at 
eve.  They  have  hemmed  it  in  and  covered  it.  The 
days  were  long  before  the  Romans  came,  and  very 
sweet.  All  is  clamour  now,  and  confusion." 

"  The  Roman  galleys  ! "  It  flashed  across  me 
that  I  had  heard  of  the  Roman  cohorts  having 
come  up  this  little  waterway  from  the  Thames,  and 
taken  the  road  to  London.  Then  I  was  suddenly 
smitten  with  wonder  that  a  woman  who  had  been 
working  in  the  fields  should  talk  with  the  air  and 
accent  of  a  princess.  She  smiled  at  me  again  as 
she  steadied  the  bundle  of  twigs. 

"Cannot  you  remember,"  she  asked.  "But  no! 
It  is  only  when  the  soul  is  very  strong  that  the 
barriers  can  be  broken  down.  You  were  ever  the 
weaker  one.  Some  day,  like  me,  you  will  remember 
what  lies  between  Death  and  Time,  but  not  yet ; 
perhaps  when  we  come  together  again,  as  we  were 
at  the  Mill  of  Oran,  on  the  day  it  ground  the  red 

69 


The  Measure  of  Life 


wheat  that  was  your  life  and  mine.  Oh  no  !  I  will 
not  tell,  though  I  know  what  and  who  you  are  ;  and 
I  know  you  well." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  mine,  as  it  rested  on  the  grey 
stone,  and  I,  looking  up  at  her  in  the  twilight,  was 
suddenly  aware  that  we  two  were  standing  in  a 
green  wood,  on  a  hillside  overlooking  the  hidden 
sea.  Below  us  lay  a  wide  and  endless  plain,  covered 
with  a  misty  obscurity,  violet  and  brown,  merging 
away  along  the  vague  horizon  into  a  dense  purple 
blackness.  Across  the  vague,  intangible  shadowiness 
stretched  a  wavering  line  of  silver,  that  was  now 
glitteringly  bright  and  now  darkly  effulgent,  as  if  it 
caught  strange  fires  or  was  covered  with  strange 
vapours.  That  was  a  river.  Overhead  the  sky 
was  white,  with  a  moon  in  it  red  as  blood.  There 
was  no  wind,  no  faintest  stir  in  the  hot  night,  and 
all  the  dense  atmosphere  was  permeated  by  a 
mysterious  pungent  odour,  repellent  and  horrible. 
Terror  and  horror  in  my  soul  recognized  it  as  the 
smell  of  blood — blood  that  was  flowing  on  the  plain 
below  in  torrents.  Faint  as  the  light  was,  I  could 
see  her  leaning  against  an  oak  bough  that  grew  low 
from  its  trunk,  her  mantle  of  spotted  green  flung 
back,  her  face  white  and  drawn,  peering  from  her 
waving  brown  hair,  her  bright  eyes  devouring  the 
darkness  while  we  waited.  Woe  lay  upon  us,  great 

70 


The  Waters  of 


fear,  bitter  sorrow.  Suddenly  out  of  the  misty  dark- 
ness came  a  man  in  a  tightly- fitting  jacket  worn  over 
a  white  kilt,  all  bespattered  with  red.  His  feet  were 
stained  red  in  their  laced  coverings  of  deerskin.  The 
gold  tores  on  neck  and  arm  were  dull  and  wet,  his 
shield  hung  from  a  bleeding  hand,  and  his  downward 
pointing  sword,  short  and  heavy,  dripped  at  the  point. 
He  flung  himself  at  her  feet,  saying  no  word  ;  across 
his  body  our  eyes  met. 

"  They  go  out  on  the  flowing  tide !  " 

Up  through  the  dusk  came  the  lapping  of  the 
flood-tide  as  it  covered  the  yellow  sand.  The  mists 
lifted  and  showed  us  the  long  waves  lifting  the  fair- 
haired  warriors  as  they  had  fallen,  sword  in  hand, 
shield  on  arm,  while  the  battle  still  roared  on.  I 
knew  it  all  so  well !  The  high,  rugged  headland, 
showing  purple  against  the  sky,  the  boundless  ocean 
beyond,  the  curving  circle  of  the  little  bay — Clontarf, 
with  the  plover  crying  over  the  vanquished  dead ; 
Clontarf  on  the  night  of  sorrow  after  the  day  of 
partings.  Dead  !  Locked  foot  to  foot,  hand  to 
hand,  with  the  fierce  Northern  invader.  And  the 
fight,  the  useless  fight,  raged  on  between  the 
mountains  and  the  flowing  sea.  I  looked  again, 
and  we  were  on  Brentford  Bridge.  She  was  lifting 
her  bundle  of  apple-twigs. 

"  Tell  me  who  you  are  ?    Who  am  I  ? " 
71 


The  Measure  of  Life 


She  smiled  sadly  enough,  and  waved  her  hand 
towards  the  crowd  below. 

"  Shadows  all ! " 

The  echo  of  her  words  followed  on  her  footsteps 
as  she  vanished  into  the  twilight. 

"Shadows  all!" 

Shadows  of  the  reality,  vainly  striving  after  the 
immaterial  things,  to  which  they  do  but  belong.  A 
motor  flashed  past  me  with  a  hooting  cry.  Another 
shadow,  a  phantasm  less  real  than  the  unforgetting 
mind,  that  had  but  an  instant  since  stood  over  the 
bay  of  Clontarf,  and  seen  the  long-haired  Gael 
carried  out  on  the  flood  of  ocean,  and  heard  the 
wailing  cry  that  told  of  his  death,  who  could  not 
be  bought  or  persuaded  to  do  the  thing  that  was 
wrong. 


THE   HEIGHT   OF  THE   STARS 

T  T  was  dark  along  the  shores  of  Coolmaine.  Their 
•*•  outline  heaved  tremulously  up,  vaguely  dusk  and 
formless  above  the  running  wave.  The  woods  hung 
low  along  by  Cluan-an-uishga-geel,  with  never  a 
breath  to  stir  their  multitudinous  leaves.  Some- 
where between  us  and  the  wide  swell  of  ocean  a 
woman  was  singing  in  the  Erse — a  sweet,  wailing 
melody  with  all  the  passion  of  despairing  love  in  its 
haunting  many-vowelled  refrain. 

"  Es  chi  dee-ee-eeich,  Mavourn,  Ma-vourneen 
slawn  ! " 

That  was  the  cry  of  love,  hopeless,  longing, 
deserted,  over  what  would  return  no  more.  The  dip 
of  the  oars  in  the  long  green  wave,  as  it  billowed 
silently  out  from  behind  us  in  the  dark  and  went  swiftly 
onwards  to  shatter  itself  in  foam  on  the  rocks  before, 
made  a  soft,  continuous  accompaniment  to  the  lovely 
melancholy  of  the  rich  note.  There  would  be  no 
salve  in  this  world,  would  soothe  that  hurt  of  which 
it  sang. 

73 


The  Measure  of  Life 


There  was  no  moon  that  night.  Looking  shore- 
ward, the  waves  broke  in  phosphorescent  gleamings  ; 
a  flame  of  white  fire  ran  round  us  as  we  went,  and 
rippled  tumultuously  in  our  rear.  A  low  grey  mist 
lay  over  the  sea,  making  it  white  in  its  greenness, 
but  overhead  shone  all  the  planets,  whirling  in  their 
spheres. 

"  I  wonder,"  quoth  one,  "  what  is  the  height  of  the 
stars  ?  "  and  another  made  answer,  "  I  have  read  that 
the  height  of  the  stars  is  the  stature  of  a  man's  soul." 

Now  I  felt  this  was  a  hard  saying  ;  but  wisdom 
awaits  one  in  unexpected  places,  and  confusion 
follows  on  untimely  questioning.  It  was  not  the 
hour  or  the  place,  but  I  thought  of  the  question  and 
the  answer,  speculating  on  it  within  myself. 

There  was  a  distinguished  philosopher  who  said, 
"  Hitch  your  waggon  to  a  star."  I  wonder  why  he 
said  that?  For  he,  of  all  men,  must  have  known 
how  little  likelihood  there  was,  once  the  stars  swam 
into  a  man's  horizon,  of  his  cumbering  himself  with 
a  waggon.  He  would  no  longer  have  need  of  it,  for 
one  may  not  travel  to  the  realms  of  light  and  air 
save  by  the  way  of  the  spirit  and  on  the  feet  of  the 
spirit. 

And  on  that  way  prince  and  beggar  are  alike,  in 
that  they  are  as  man  was  in  the  beginning,  when  he 
stood  among  the  beasts  in  Paradise — their  friend, 

74 


The  Height  of  the  Stars 


perhaps,  but  certainly  not  taskmaster  or  tyrant. 
The  waggon  would  be  useless,  unless  the  man  foolishly 
attempted  the  way,  drawing  the  waggon  himself, 
unknowing  that  he  who  travels  that  route  leaves 
behind  him  the  burden  of  possessions  as  likely  to 
hinder  and  impede  his  progress. 

Those  old  mystics,  who  sought  incessantly  for  the 
Elixir  of  Life  and  the  Philosopher's  Stone — the 
liquid  that  would  make  immortality  certain  in  this 
world  ;  the  stone  that  would  transmute  all  baser 
metals  into  pure  gold — taught  a  profound  and 
beautiful  philosophy,  great  and  wonderful  truths, 
mostly  culled  from  the  wisdom  and  learning  of  the 
East. 

Among  other  things,  they  set  forth  that  a  man,  to 
rise,  must  do  so  on  the  ashes  of  himself;  that  to  all 
spiritual  heights  the  Magus  must  ascend  through 
bodily  and  mental  suffering.  They  must,  as  St. 
Francis  did,  fight  with  and  conquer  the  body  and 
subjugate  the  senses  till  they  became  fine  and 
exquisite  servants  of  the  soul,  opening  doors  into 
the  unknown,  teaching  the  wonders  and  might  of 
the  Creator. 

Men  have  reached  to  the  stars  from  the  beginning 
of  days,  and  always  reached  from  the  same  height : 
the  measure  of  the  stature  of  their  own  souls  ;  and  a 
soul  can  only  grow  when  all  that  prevents  and  dwarfs 

75 


The  Measure  of  Life 


it  is  taken  up  and  cast  forth.  Diogenes  reached  the 
stars  from  his  tub.  Plato  from  his  garden.  St. 
Francis  out  of  his  narrow  cell.  But  how  much  did 
each  cast  away  from  him  before  the  heights  were 
gained?  To  each  his  own  bitterness,  to  each  his 
own  sweet.  It  is  Circe  who  offers  at  first  a  cup 
running  over  with  nectar.  There  are  thorns  about 
the  goblet  we  drink.  Its  waters  are  dark  and  harsh 
on  the  lip  as  we  set  out  for  the  light  above.  And 
perhaps  nectar  is  sweeter  among  the  stars.  How 
shall  we  know,  who  have  never  tasted  aught  but 
bitterness  here  ? 

The  ancient  Magus  who  set  out  on  the  Hidden 
Way  began  with  a  forty  days'  fast  and  purification. 
Afterwards  he  lived  as  the  very  poorest — bread  and 
fruit  and  water  were  his  fare.  He  bathed  winter  and 
summer  before  dawn ;  regulated  his  hours  of  sleep, 
lest  sloth  should  lay  hold  upon  his  soul  in  its  absence 
from  the  body.  He  had  to  be  scrupulously  clean  in 
person  and  clothing,  to  speak  seldom,  and  to  be  in 
penitence.  He  was  warned  to  choose  his  points  of 
contact  with  the  world,  and  to  concentrate  his 
energies  within  him  on  the  thing  he  sought  to 
achieve.  Knowledge  came  without  warning  when  he 
was  prepared  for  it  and  he  saw  the  way. 

It  was  but  a  dream,  that  Elixir  of  Life,  that 
wonderful  stone.  No  mortal  might  ever  find  them, 

76 


The  Height  of  the  Stars 


because  they  are  not  in  the  scheme  of  things.  They 
belong  to  a  step  higher,  a  time  when  we  have  reached 
the  heights,  and  they  are  no  longer  necessary,  or 
even  desirable.  Who  will  crave  for  the  elixir  when 
he  understands  life  ?  And  of  what  use  the  stone  to 
one  who  knows  that  which  gold  cannot  buy  ?  I 
think  perhaps  many  of  those  old  mystics  found  what 
they  sought,  but  found  it  other  than  they  expected, 
and  despised  it 

The  alchemist  might  quaff  the  elixir  and  find 
himself  still  what  he  was,  for  the  rose  and  blue  of 
Dawning  cannot  be  held  back,  or  the  gold  and  white 
of  Noon,  hence  it  is  well  that  Evening  should  fall 
in  her  garments  of  dusky  grey  ;  each  has  its  charm 
and  happiness,  and  the  night  comes  when  all  sleep — 
to  wake  again  afterwards. 

Yet  for  all  it  was  a  dream  it  taught  much,  for  it 
showed  the  way  to  the  stars  was  open  to  that  one 
who  mastered  himself.  It  stands  to-day  as  when  the 
old  alchemist  spoke  it :  "  That  if  a  man  formulate 
his  desire,  an  it  be  a  high  and  praiseworthy  desire, 
and  a  holy  thing — an  he  work  upon  it  immediately — 
it  will  come  to  pass;  for  to  him  who  thinketh  it, 
that  thing  is  already  begun." 

When  a  man  can  restrain  all  impulse  and  has 
mastered  himself,  he  can  be  no  other  man's  servant. 
He  who  reaches  to  the  stars  will  not  be  in  subjection. 

77 


The  Measure  of  Life 


But  after  the  victory  over  the  mere  body  comes  the 
strife  with  the  passions ;  they  must  all  be  conquered 
in  turn. 

Mylittla  is  not  for  him — as  wife  or  mistress  she 
brings  disaster ;  even  to  common  clay,  which  has  no 
aspirations,  she  is  alternative  delight  and  mournful 
mystery.  The  Magus  avoids  her.  Even  St. 
Chrysostom  warns  the  aspirant.  "For  what,"  he 
asks,  "  is  woman  but  an  enemy  to  friendship,  an 
unavoidable  punishment,  a  necessary  evil,  a  natural 
temptation,  a  desirable  misfortune,  a  perpetual 
fountain  of  tears,  a  mischief  of  nature  overlaid  with 
varnish  ? " 

"Amor  febris  species!"  It  must  be,  like  all 
other  maladies,  overcome  and  passed.  Hate  and 
fear  and  hunger — they  are  for  other  and  weaker 
spirits. 

Determination  is  surely  the  means  to  all  ends, 
call  it  by  what  name  you  will.  As  God  Himself  is 
eternal  and  unchangeable,  so  has  He  made  this 
world  and  the  creatures  He  has  set  in  it  with  a 
yearning,  never  ceasing  and  imperishable,  for  the 
heights  above.  The  trend  of  life  is  higher  and 
higher  still.  It  has  no  pause  ;  even  with  apparent 
extinction  the  body  itself  goes  on,  the  soul  also. 

In  Southern  India,  on  the  great  Nilgiri  Plateau, 
from  which  rises  a  majestic  and  inaccessible 

73 


The  Height  of  the  Stars 


mountain  called  the  Mukate  Peak,  there  lives  a 
strange,  primitive  race,  the  Todas,  who  have  many 
mysterious  traditions  and  fine  thoughts.  When  a 
man  there  draws  near  to  his  end,  and  especially  if  he 
has  lived  a  holy  and  ascetic  life,  they  gather  round 
to  watch  him  pass.  When  the  death-sweat  beads 
his  pallid  face,  when  the  breath  comes  quickly  and 
strained,  when  the  heart  labours  and  the  lips  whiten, 
they  say  he  is  climbing  the  steep  sides  of  the  great 
Peak  on  his  way  to  the  stars. 

And  afterwards,  when  the  breath  ceases  and  the 
limbs  are  still  and  straight,  they  say  he  has  departed 
into  "  the  neighbouring  country." 

So  will  it  be,  I  think,  with  many  a  one  who  is 
reaching  to  the  stars.  He  will  get  there  to  find 
himself  in  a  familiar  neighbouring  country.  The 
boundary  may  be  within  touch  any  day — here,  now 
— and  we  cannot  see  it  till  it  is  passed.  When  we 
pass  over  it  is  the  moment  surely  of  attainment,  and 
that  moment  may  be,  as  in  the  East,  the  moment 
following  on  the  Great  Renunciation. 

The  Buddhist  makes  the  renunciation  by  leaving 
everything  he  possesses  and  going  forth  in  the 
beggar's  yellow  garb  to  make  his  soul.  It  is  possible 
in  the  East  to  do  that,  but  under  these  Northern 
skies  things  are  differently  disposed.  The  Great 
Renunciation  is  made  otherwise,  and  often  we  are 

79 


The  Measure  of  Life 


wearing  the  mendicant's  robe  and  rattling  the  little 
wooden  basin  by  the  peepul  trees  of  life,  and  no  one 
is  the  wiser  save  the  stars  we  reach  to  and  the 
Master  we  feebly  emulate.  We  are  living  in  a  fourth 
dimension,  where  we  appear  to  be  what  we  are  not. 

It  is  very  true,  I  think,  that  a  man  finds  in  life 
only  that  which  he  brings  to  it,  and  sees  only  that 
which  is  in  him.  So  that  it  might  appear  some  are 
born  with  full  vision  of  the  stars  and  disregard  them 
till  the  supreme  moment  arrives,  when,  like  the  King 
of  Babylon,  they  stand  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
with  the  arrows  of  divination  in  their  hands.  It  is  a 
foregone  conclusion  that  these  will  choose  the 
difficult  and  upward  path,  and  go  with  bleeding  feet 
and  grasping  hands  to  higher  things  ;  bridging  the 
mountain  abysses  with  the  cross ;  making  their  own 
miseries  and  sorrows  and  losses  stepping-stones  on  to 
the  neighbouring  country. 

I  cannot  tell,  either,  if  it  is  good  altogether  to 
forget  the  ritual  of  love  and  hate  as  the  old  Mystics 
taught,  for  the  atmosphere  of  the  stars  is  very  remote. 
But  doubtless — for  we  have  been  shown — it  is  easiest 
to  attain  them  over  the  scoria  of  our  burnt-out 
passions ;  for  only  the  purity  and  holiness  of  the 
soul  remain  unconsumed  in  the  intensity  of  that 
splendour  of  light  which  is  the  full  knowledge — the 
being  as  God  and  seeing  the  good  and  evil. 

80 


The  Height  of  the  Stars 


And  so  I  would  say,  also,  it  is  the  broken  hearts 
that  fill  the  world  with  music.  They  sing  as  the  girl 
sang  in  the  dark,  over  the  moonless  sea  along  the 
shore  of  Coolmaine.  Surely  in  her  despair  a  woman 
reaches  the  stars  sometimes  at  heights  undreamt  of 
by  sacrifice,  and  that  is  the  strangeness  of  love  to 
woman. 

For  as  Melusine  is  death  to  the  spirit  of  the  man, 
so  Eros  is  the  soul-creator,  bringer  of  life  to  the 
woman ;  and  that  which  the  man  renounces  as  the 
cup  of  Circe  is  often  to  her  the  goblet  of  sacrifice, 
sanctified  with  prayers  and  vigils  and  bitter  tears. 
There  are  many  ways  to  the  stars,  all  of  them 
lonely  and  steep,  and  all  wet  with  bloody  sweat. 
Surely  at  last  they  merge  upon  a  plain  in  the 
neighbouring  country  where  all  distinctions  are 
forgotten,  and  each  finds  the  thing  sought. 


81 


BORROWED   DAYS  AND   STRAYED 

T  HAVE  seen  in  the  gloom  and  mirk  of  the  great 
•*•  city  a  day  come  stealing  up  the  wintry  ways 
that  was  pure  summer — summer  at  its  sweetest, 
with  a  high  blue  sky,  flecked  with  white,  as  if  Hermes 
were  driving  a  flock  of  lambs  over  the  pathways  of 
heaven — a  day  of  radiant  peace  and  sunshine,  swept 
by  a  singing  west  wind,  the  wind  of  romance  and 
mystery,  suggesting  a  happiness  impending  and 
unfulfilled. 

That  sun  and  wind  permeate  the  roaring  tides  of 
life  with  a  sudden  sense  of  youth.  The  sap  quickens 
in  the  city  trees,  and  moves  the  barren  branches  to 
beauty  ;  they  paint  the  grey  buildings  into  the  like- 
ness of  a  dream.  Here  a  touch  of  sheer  violet  in  the 
long  vistas,  there  a  pearly  haze  which  blurs  harsh, 
forbidding  outlines  into  mystic  obscurity.  The  lions 
in  the  square,  the  grey-green  of  the  icy  fountains 
tossing  into  the  bronze  basin,  the  gigantic  dome  of 
St.  Paul's,  with  its  circling  flight  of  silvery  doves,  are 
component  parts  of  a  loveliness  thrust  on  the  rejoicing 
eye  with  a  curious  haste.  For  the  summer  day  that 

82 


Borrowed  Days  and  Strayed 


comes  in  winter  has  but  a  brief  time  to  stay,  and  it 
must  needs  make  haste  to  show  us  what  it  can. 

Hard  faces  relax,  grim  faces  smile.  There  is  a 
quickening  of  hand  and  heart  and  eye  on  this  day. 
The  world  is  unaccountably  happy.  It  is  a  renewal 
of  youth  in  the  soul,  as  it  is  renewal  of  summer  in 
the  air. 

In  the  Black  North  of  Ireland  they  have  a  saying 
about  that  day.  They  call  it  a  "  borrowed  day,"  and 
tell  each  other  "Summer  will  be  payin'  back  the 
winter  the  day  she  borrowed  in  her  prime." 

But  in  the  wild  West,  where  the  green  Atlantic 
surges  up  against  the  shore,  the  Erse  folk  have 
another  way  of  speaking  of  that  day.  They  think 
it  a  day  that  has  been  lost — "  strayed."  "  This  will 
be  a  day  that  lost  itself,  God  bless  it ! "  they  say. 
"  May  it  be  a  long  eve,  for  it  is  good  to  the  poor." 
It  is  good  to  the  poor !  Maybe  it  comes  after  long 
weeks  of  hail  and  cold,  bitter  frost  and  the  "  blight," 
that  most  cruel  of  all  winds,  dreaded  of  the  poor, 
stealing  noiselessly  along  the  low  boglands  and  over 
the  bare  hills,  wrapping  the  world  in  an  icy  mantle 
of  yellowish  grey,  bringing  with  it  bitter  misery  to 
all.  The  roads  are  like  lines  of  black  glass,  hard  and 
impervious.  The  bog  cotton-stalks,  the  loosestrife 
and  ragweed,  the  faded  heads  of  meadow-sweet,  and 
the  low  bushes  of  whitethorn,  grass  and  dead  flower 

83 


The  Measure  of  Life 


and  seed,  are  all  alike  erect  and  still  in  their  garment 
of  grey  rime.  The  very  airs  are  perished  with  the 
cold — cold  almost  beyond  human  endurance,  so  keen 
is  its  touch  and  breath. 

Up  to  it  comes  the  strayed  day,  and  is  hailed 
with  blessings.  The  heartache  is  not  so  poignant, 
the  pinch  of  hunger  not  so  intolerable.  It  is  as  if 
Apollo  wandered  fluting  through  the  land,  thrilling 
all  hearts  to  a  passionate  joy,  the  joy  of  youth  and 
future,  the  happiness  of  things  to  come. 

The  beauty  of  hill  and  wind  and  sky  may  have 
been  ours  before ;  but  in  this  day  we  take  a  new  and 
peculiar  delight  in  our  possession,  because  something 
has  been  removed  that  once  marred  it.  Aeolus 
thrusts  all  the  winds  into  a  leathern  bag,  binds  it 
with  a  silver  cord,  and  gives  them  to  our  keeping — 
all  the  winds  save  one,  the  wind  of  mystery  and  love, 
the  singing,  sweet  west  wind,  that  pipes  over  the 
world  with  songs  of  pearl  and  opal  in  high  wild 
strains  of  joy,  or  deep,  quiet  notes,  serene  as  ocean 
on  the  flow.  The  strayed  day  is  flowing  over  with 
music  ;  all  the  birds  sing  in  it  with  a  fervid  passion  ; 
the  wild  bee  wakes  to  murmur  for  an  hour.  They 
also  are  asking  God  to  bless  the  day,  amid  bare 
boughs  and  leafless  branches. 

And  I  think  there  are  strayed  days  in  life  too. 
We  get  blue  summer  days  in  harvest-time,  in  the 

84 


Borrowed  Days  and  Strayed 

winter's  frost  and  fog,  when  the  senses  are  dulled  and 
perception  all  but  lost.  The  most  terrible  thing  in 
age  is  the  absence  of  future.  There  is  no  more — all 
is  at  an  end.  It  will  be  like  waiting  for  the  eyes  to 
close  over  the  tired  brain.  Age  is  so  weary!  Too 
tired  perhaps  to  go  on — too  weary  to  continue  the 
unending  retrospect.  And  into  this  winter-time 
comes  suddenly  a  day  from  the  June  of  life.  Very 
likely  it  would  not  have  considered  it  a  theme  for 
thankfulness  had  it  come  at  its  proper  time,  but  now 
— what  words  can  describe  the  bliss  of  reawakened 
youth  ?  This  comes  to  prove  its  immortality — that  it 
lies  in  the  soul  ready  to  wake  at  a  touch.  Not  all 
the  months  of  life  from  April  till  October  end  could 
hold  the  sunshine  of  this  belated  summer  day. 

Age  has  been  stooping  under  its  burden,  sad, 
morose,  and  silent ;  it  has  forgotten  how  the  throstle 
sings,  or  what  the  wren  says  to  its  tiny  mate.  It  is 
a  long  while  back,  since  there  was  a  whispering  on 
the  bough,  or  since  it  saw  the  purple  bloom  on  the 
hills.  Life  has  been  so  drear.  All  night ! 

"  So  I  have  all  the  night 
Of  my  sweet  youth  thought ; 
And  alas  !     I  wis 
Gone  is  my  bliss." 

Age  has  been  thinking  like  that.  Mourning  in 
his  soul,  saying  with  Dante,  over  the  sombre  mists  of 

85 


The  Measure  of  Life 


hell,  "  Bruna,  bruna,  sotto  1'  ombra  perpetua."  It  will 
be  so  for  ever.  If  one  offered  length  of  days  to  Age 
at  that  time  of  thinking,  it  would  be  to  hear  an 
answer  such  as  Cormac,  the  son  of  Selbach,  gave  the 
angel. 

Cormac  had  lost  love  and  youth  and  wealth,  and 
become  an  anchorite,  who  dwelt  with  fasting  and 
mortification  in  the  oak  wood  of  Darragh,  and  there 
he  was  captured  and  bound  by  the  Pagan  hordes 
under  Turgesius.  Three  times  did  an  angel  free  him 
from  his  bonds,  and  three  times  did  Cormac  consent 
to  his  death  with  gladness.  "What?"  he  cried; 
"  shall  I  return  to  the  dark  of  life,  with  the  glory  of 
Heaven  before  me  ? "  And  so  he  died.  If  the  glory 
were  his  in  the  end,  who  can  tell  ?  It  is  certain  he 
had  somehow  shut  out  the  strayed  day ;  for  we  all 
think  like  that  till  it  dawns,  and  sets  our  blood 
dancing  as  it  did  in  childhood. 

When  Immortal  Youth  springs  forth  in  us  the 
gloom  and  misery,  the  chill  and  loneliness  of  our 
winter-time  is  wiped  out.  We  remember  it  no  more. 
It  is  June  in  our  hearts  for  one  day,  and  in  it  we  live 
a  thousand  days  gone  past  and  all  their  gladness. 
What  if  it  be  December  for  the  rest  of  the  world  ! 
They  too  have  their  strayed  and  borrowed  days,  and 
can  rejoice  also  when  their  turn  comes. 

The  preacher  will  tell  you, "  This  is  compensation." 
86 


Borrowed  Days  and  Strayed 

But  it  is  not  that.  It  is  conviction — proof  absolute 
of  the  immortality  that  is  in  us.  The  feet  of  middle 
age  do  not  tingle  to  dance  on  the  pavement  with 
the  tattered  gutter  child.  It  does  not  go  lilting 
joyously  along  the  ways,  or  restrain  with  difficulty 
the  laughter  and  jest  that  bubble  to  the  lips.  No ! 
but  on  the  strayed  day  it  feels  all  these  things,  for  it 
is  in  the  June  of  its  life  again,  and  realizes  it  is 
perpetually  young,  immortally  glad. 

And  the  heart  of  Age  is  cold,  but  on  this  day  it 
overflows  with  love  for  humanity  as  it  did  in  the 
time  when  great  love  was  its  own  portion,  the  portion 
we  share  with  others,  the  tribute  to  Dis,  paid  in  our 
hours  of  joy,  lest  the  immortals  see  it  and  be 
envious. 

"  To  the  stones  be  it  said "  the  heart  is  always 
young.  We  may,  for  all  we  know,  be  younger  when 
we  come  to  the  gates  of  the  Valley  of  Transition 
than  when  we  were  ferried  over  from  Oblivion. 

Wasted  perhaps  by  scorn  and  doubt  and  misery, 
overlaid  by  the  shadow  of  an  obscure  fate,  and 
carrying  the  torch  of  extinguished  passion  ;  but 
we  may  have  shaken  off  the  weight  of  unguessed 
ages  behind  us  in  the  living  of  these  borrowed 
days. 

We  may  pay  for  the  hours  of  charm  with  years  of 
wretchedness  and  isolation.  But  what  of  that?  It 

37 


The  Measure  of  Life 


is  enough  surely  to  remember  the  music  and  warmth 
and  glory  of  that  day,  when  the  blood  leaped 
tumultuously  through  our  sluggish  veins,  and  tinged 
the  cheek  and  throbbed  in  the  heart  once  more. 
Only  for  the  length  of  a  day !  To  sing  and  laugh 
from  sun  to  sun,  to  feel  again  the  irresponsible 
delight  of  life's  springtime.  It  may  seem  too  high  a 
price,  but  it  is  not.  Perhaps  it  depends  on  ourselves 
that  day  if  the  price  be  too  high  or  no  price  at  all. 
When  we  have  broken  the  callous  bonds  that  held  us 
and  feel  we  are  akin  to  all  the  suffering  in  the  world, 
to  all  the  happiness  and  joy  ;  when  we  recognize  with 
thankfulness  our  fellowship  with  the  gutter  child, 
dancing  grimly  on  the  wet  pavement,  the  price  is 
small — very  small.  For  are  we  paying  it  entirely 
alone  ? 

The  day  is  yours,  but  the  blight  is  in  the  souls  of 
others  ;  the  keen  frost  chills  the  springs  of  being  for 
multitudes.  Take  of  your  sunshine — the  sunshine 
that  is  like  palpable  gold,  and  can  be  gathered  in  the 
hands — and  bestow  it  on  the  others. 

You  may  never  have  another  Borrowed  Day  while 
you  live.  But  think  it  the  one  gold  piece  in  your 
purse,  and  offer  it  just  the  same,  and  you  will  see  a 
miracle.  It  is  as  if  you  offered  charity  to  a  beggar 
in  the  highway,  who,  taking  your  solitary  coin,  led 
you  suddenly  to  the  King's  treasury,  and,  thrusting 


Borrowed  Days  and  Strayed 

precious  jewels  upon  you,  said  :  "  Take  these,  for 
they  are  yours."  You  will  take  them  and  go  forth 
to  hear  the  new  song  in  the  wind,  see  the  new  blue- 
ness  of  heaven.  To  reap  a  harvest,  sown  in  the 
Borrowed  Day. 


THE   SUNLIGHT  OF   THE   SEA 

T  REMEMBER  a  night  in  the  Persian  Gulf— 
•*•  moonless,  deep  in  its  violet  blackness  as  a  purple 
passion-flower,  with  no  stars  in  the  dim  hyacinthine 
vault  above,  and  a  sea  black  as  glass,  smooth,  level, 
unbroken,  and  unmoved.  No  whisper  from  wind  or 
tide  stirred  the  tense  silence  of  the  hour ;  the  ship 
swung  on  the  tideway  languid  and  listlessly,  as  if 
feeling  the  weariness  of  the  heat  and  the  burden  of 
the  silence.  Now  on  this  side  she  glided  over  an 
abysm  of  darkness,  now  on  the  other  showed  the 
thousand  lights  of  Bussora,  city  of  sin  and  strange 
things.  Suddenly,  on  the  lower  deck,  a  boy  began 
to  sing  to  his  lute,  in  a  soft,  girlish  contralto,  and 
his  song  was  of  a  lover,  betrayed  and  deserted,  who, 
wandering  beside  the  sea,  finds  on  its  sands  a  piece 
of  yellow  amber,  and  remembers  it  was  once  a  tear, 
shed  by  his  love  on  a  long-past  day  when  he  was  the 
faithless  one,  even  as  she  in  the  present  was  faithless 
to  him. 

I  leaned  over  into  the  soft  velvety  blackness  and 
listened   with  that   curious  vague  sensation  which 

90 


The  Sunlight  of  the  Sea 


haunts  us  all  at  times  of  having  once  heard  the  song 
and  story  before.  But  when  and  where,  for  that 
moment,  I  could  not  remember.  The  voice  ceased 
with  a  dull  twang  from  the  little  lute,  and  a  balmy 
coolness  blew  across  the  burning  decks,  soft  with 
the  breath  of  rain-drenched  rose-blooms  from  far-off 
gardens  on  the  desert  edge. 

I  called  into  the  dark,  "  Boy,  sing  again  that  song 
of  the  amber  tear." 

Back  came  the  answer  from  the  lower  deck,  softly 
clear — 

"  Lady,  I  can  sing  no  more.  The  Samoor  blows 
— my  lute  is  unstrung." 

Then  I  remembered  that  while  the  south  wind 
blows  no  lute  or  violin  can  be  tuned,  because  that 
balmy  wind  renders  the  strings  so  soft,  and  there  is 
no  song  while  it  lasts ;  for  what  minstrel  in  the  East, 
be  he  Hindu  or  Persian,  will  sing  without  the  tinkling 
accompaniment  of  his  little  lute  ? 

Still  the  song  haunted  me,  the  low  sobbing 
refrain,  the  passionate  regret,  and  still  I  wondered 
where  I  had  once  listened  to  it  before. 

The  ship  swung  round  again  in  the  Samoor,  and 
the  sea  was  rippled  into  long  lines  of  pale  green  fire, 
and  far  as  the  eye  could  see  lay  a  galaxy  of  floating 
stars,  shedding  moonlike  radiance  through  the  lucid 
waters.  All  the  darkness  had  gone,  the  night  was 

91 


The  Measure  of  Life 


now  outlined  in  moony  sheen.  It  was  as  if  the  ship 
had  slipped  her  anchorage,  and  slid,  like  a  towering 
bulk  of  misty  cloud,  into  a  firmament  fallen  on  the 
sea. 

Never  had  I  seen  so  strange  a  sight,  yet  instantly 
it  brought  to  me  the  fugitive  remembrance  after  which 
I  was  striving  so  vainly.  I  remembered  in  a  flash 
the  story  of  the  amber  tear.  It  was  in  my  childhood, 
by  the  stormy  sea  of  Moyle,  late  in  the  gloaming  of 
midsummer  eve,  while  the  Bel  fires  were  still  blazing 
on  every  little  hillock  and  tall  crag.  And  on  the  shore 
with  old  Brigid  I  found  at  my  feet  a  piece  of  yellow 
amber  shaped  like  a  tear. 

"  An'  that  will  be  a  tear  dropped  by  Lir's  daughter 
while  the  charm  was  on  her  that  held  her  over  wild 
Moyle,"  said  Brigid.  "Ah,  now!  'tis  a  long  while 
she  wept  before  she  heard  the  church  bells  ring  on 
Eire." 

I  stood,  with  the  dark  yellow  amber  in  my  palm 
and  the  sound  of  the  restless  waters  in  my  ears,  while 
old  Brigid  sat  on  a  flat  rock  and  related  that  sad 
history,  which  is  the  chief  of  the  three  Sorrows  of 
Story-telling. 

"  But,  Brigid,"  I  remonstrated, "  how  can  one  weep 
tears  like  this  ?  It  is  like  the  sun  when  it  comes  over 
the  sea  in  the  morning ;  it  is  warm  and  smooth,  and 
smells  so  sweet ! " 

92 


The  Sunlight  of  the  Sea 


"  An'  why  not,  Aroon  ? "  answered  Brigid.  "  Wasn't 
it  the  golden  youth  of  her — her  beauty  an'  her  long- 
ing an'  her  love  ?  Her  tears  had  a  right  to  be  all 
that ;  for  didn't  she  weep  herself  into  them  ?  An'  they 
do  be  sayin",  Machree,  that  they  who  find  her  tears 
will  be  sheddin'  many  themselves,  but  will  ever 
have  the  power  to  make  others  forget  them." 

"Come  home  now,"  she  added,  "for  the  Little 
Good  People  do  be  goin'  by  there,  an'  'tisn't  good 
for  the  likes  of  you  to  be  in  their  way  this  night." 

She  pointed  out  to  sea,  and  I  saw  every  sullen 
wave-crest  tipped  with  faint  white  light.  To  her  it 
was  the  Fairy  Court  travelling  from  Tory  Island  to  the 
mainland.  Knowledge  would  have  told  her  in  vain 
it  was  but  floating  shoals  of  almost  impalpable  sea- 
creatures  driven  before  some  far-off  storm-wind — the 
first  thoughts  of  Creation,  mysteriously  aflame  without 
fire  or  heat.  So  when  I  looked  over  the  ship's  side 
into  the  sun-kissed  waters  of  the  tropics,  I  went  back 
to  that  childish  day  and  remembered  old  Conal  the 
Weaver  piercing  my  amber  tear  and  stringing  it  on 
a  length  of  scarlet  thread  that  I  might  wear  it  as  a 
talisman  and  pray,  like  the  Pagan  Princess,  who  waited 
through  all  the  long  centuries  with  her  brothers,  that 
she  might  save  their  souls  and  her  own  by  her  long 
and  terrible  self-sacrifice. 

"See  now,"  said  Conal,  as  he  put  it  round  my 
93 


The  Measure  of  Life 


neck,  "the  only  thing  we  have  when  it  comes  to  the 
last  is  what  we  have  done  for  others.  Mind  ye  now, 
ma  creveen  cno." 

So  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  Lir,  so  it  is  with 
us  all  when  we  give  ourselves  for  others ;  our  souls 
weep  tears  of  amber,  imperishable  and  fragrant,  for 
in  them  is  the  essence  of  our  youth,  our  gladness,  our 
joy.  Sorrow  comes  in  the  midst  of  sunshine  and  lays 
a  spell  on  us,  transforming  us  into  wild  swans,  so  that 
we  leave  the  dull  earth  and  soar  heavenwards,  seeking 
consolation  in  the  grey  clouds.  Strange  it  is  that  all 
our  sorrows  come  through  those  we  love ;  and  love, 
while  it  charms  us  out  of  ourselves,  gives  wings, 
while  desire  ties  our  feet  and  kills  the  soul  eternally. 

We  must  all  suffer,  because  through  all  the  ages 
the  soul  thirsts  for  immortality,  and  knows  it  can  be 
gained  only  in  one  way — by  laying  life  down  for  love's 
sake.  We  must  not  say,  "  What  is  this  one  to  me  ?  " 
for  though  we  may  not  know  that  one  at  all,  yet  to- 
morrow it  may  be  that  one  is  the  other,  whom  we 
must  ransom  from  death,  or  who  will  ransom  us. 

The  meaning  of  life  is  hidden  till  that  time  comes 
that  we  soar  high  above  the  ocean  of  human  misery, 
weeping  over  it  as  it  ebbs  and  flows  for  ever  between 
life  and  death.  And  happy  they  whose  tears  are 
found  long  ages  after  on  the  shore  of  time,  and  are 
strung  on  a  scarlet  thread,  to  lie  on  the  pure  heart  of 

94 


The  Sunlight  of  the  Sea 


a  child,  bringing  such  thoughts  as  may  come  through 
the  pink  lips  of  the  ocean  shell,  where  the  sea  mur- 
murs, ever  complainingly  to  the  ear.  Nor  may  one 
say,  "  What  matters  it  where  we  go  ?  One  is  forgotten 
in  Eternity."  There  is  no  Eternity  other  than  this  in 
which  we  are.  It  is  as  if  a  child  made  a  circle  with 
his  finger  in  the  sea,  and  said,  "  This  is  Time ;  I  live 
in  it ;  nothing  outside  concerns  me." 

It  is  not  given  to  every  eye  to  see  outside  that 
invisible  line  drawn  by  man's  finger  on  the  soundless 
waves  of  being ;  nor  to  every  ear  to  hear  the  death- 
less song  through  which  the  amber  tears  fall  into  the 
deep.  Yet  the  one  who  sees  and  hearkens  is  worth 
all  the  unheeding  thousands  who  cannot ;  for  to  that 
one  is  revealed  the  hidden  truth,  the  reason  for  the 
earthly  sojourn,  the  meaning  of  the  struggle,  the 
cessation  of  longing,  the  perfection  through  pain. 

As  the  lover  in  the  Persian  song  remembered  a 
time  when  he,  the  unfaithful  one,  sowed  the  seeds  of 
unfaith,  so  whoso  finds  the  amber  tear  may  recall 
the  loveliness  of  sacrifice.  All  beauty,  all  comfort, 
must  come  through  suffering.  How  can  we  under- 
stand what  we  know  not  ?  And  only  the  initiate  can 
enter  in.  This  life  is  like  a  mighty  wheel  between 
the  life  that  was  and  the  life  to  be.  It  is  the  Wheel 
of  God  on  which  we  are  thrown,  to  circle  giddily  in 
many  revolutions  through  the  abyss  of  space,  till  we 

95 


The  Measure  of  Life 


have  forgotten  the  baseness  of  our  origin  in  our  high 
destiny.  The  clay  is  thrown  back  and  back  again, 
cast  into  varying  shapes,  into  many  forms,  till  at  last 
it  stands  complete,  a  thing  of  beauty,  perfect  and 
finished,  to  rejoice  high  heaven. 

The  Wheel  of  God  is  suffering.  None  may  be 
marred  by  His  awful  hand.  But  it  may  be  so  that 
we  mar  ourselves  and  cling  to  what  we  are. 

And  it  always  so  happens  that  to  those  specially 
chosen  for  tears  comes  the  love  of  laughter,  craving 
for  joy.  The  soul  that  suffers  most  is  that  soul  formed 
in  exquisite  proportions  for  bliss.  It  is  the  gladness, 
the  happiness,  the  love  that  is  wept  into  amber  tears, 
so  that  they  reflect  sunshine  through  the  dark  seas 
into  which  they  fall,  and  lighten  all  the  gulfs  of  human 
woe. 

What  is  sympathy  but  an  amber  drop,  golden  and 
translucent,  cast  on  a  scarlet  thread  about  the  neck  of 
Misery  ? 

And  it  is  better  to  weep  such  tears,  even  under 
goad  and  whip,  than  to  be  but  a  crackling  of  thorns, 
consumed  in  idleness  and  remembered  no  more  after. 
In  being  solely  to  ourselves  we  lose  the  right  to  be. 
The  only  life,  the  only  happiness,  our  sole  claim  to 
immortality,  is  what  we  do  for  others.  Our  joys,  our 
hopes,  our  smiles,  live  after  we  are  gone,  like  the  tears 
of  Lir's  spellbound  daughter.  The  sunlight  of  life, 

96 


The  Sunlight  of  the  Sea 


beautiful,  golden,  smooth,  and  sweet-smelling,  glowing 
centuries  after  we  have  passed  on,  with  the  heart's 
love  and  consolation  we  gave  out  of  our  own  bitter 
agony,  and  happily  found  and  treasured  as  a  holy 
thing  to  ward  off  the  power  of  evil. 


97 


SILHOUETTES 

TT  was  very  silent  in  the  House  of  Tears.  Outside 
A  the  multisonous  cryings  of  the  tempest ;  but 
within,  the  vast  quiet  of  unbroken  ages,  the  gloom 
and  obscurity  of  height  and  depth  untenanted, 
darkness  brooding  over  marble  and  carving,  over 
wide  hall  and  oaken  stair.  Invisible,  the  presences 
that  haunted  the  great  house  passed  noiselessly  up 
and  down,  in  and  out  of  the  panelled  rooms,  and  out 
upon  the  gallery  where  once  the  musicianers  sang, 
while  a  king  feasted  with  the  wits  and  beauties  of  a 
bygone  age. 

Here  and  there  in  the  fleeting  moonbeams  a 
painted  face,  a  figure  tricked  in  all  the  finery  of  the 
past,  gazed  out  for  an  instant  and  vanished  into  the 
gloom  again,  as  if  borrowing  for  one  moment  the 
long-perished  life  wherewith  to  look  out  again 
curiously  on  an  age  that  had  forgotten  it. 

The  moon,  white  and  full,  looked  straightly  in  at 
the  tall  old  windows,  throwing  a  complex  mass  of 
dancing  shadow  on  the  polished  floor.  Long  I 
watched  them  to  and  fro  on  the  glassy  surface. 

98 


Silhouettes 

Presently  my  eye  was  caught  by  other  shadows  on 
the  window  glass — fine,  ethereal,  exquisite, — swaying, 
dancing,  weaving  strange  patterns  on  the  vacant 
glass,  now  tossing  to  the  cornice,  now  wavering 
gracefully  to  the  stone  ledges,  filling  me  with  a 
dreamy  delight  in  their  mysterious  loveliness, — thin 
as  lace,  intricate,  marvellous  in  their  finish  and 
proportion.  Twigs  already  budding  to  the  distant 
spring,  branches,  boughs,  and  trunk  stood  out  in 
velvety  blackness  on  a  clear  white  brightness  of 
moonlight  in  the  storm :  a  whole  gale  roared  and 
rang  through  the  melancholy  concourse  of  ancient 
trees  that  gathered  in  sad  communion  round  the  old 
house.  What  mystery  of  loveliness  was  this  among 
them,  outlined  on  the  dim  glass  of  the  old  windows ! 
Full  of  the  charm  and  delight  with  which  the 
swaying  shadows  had  filled  me,  my  eyes  travelled 
out  and  above  the  clamorous  tree-tops  to  the  sky, 
swept  by  the  roaring  wind  to  a  hyacinthine  blueness, 
where  the  moon  swam  blazoned  in  argent,  attended 
by  one  great  golden  star.  On  the  very  lowermost 
edge  of  the  horizon  the  gale  had  banked  up  the 
clouds  in  a  mountainous  pile — snowy  white  and 
cold.  Below  it  the  river  ran,  a  gleaming  thread 
of  obscurely-shining  light,  on  a  dim  violet  plain, 
whose  boundaries  ran  vague  and  imporous,  towards 
an  outline  of  luminous  white, — an  outline  that 

99 


The  Measure  of  Life 


might  have  been  the  confines  of  Elysium,  bordering 
on  the  dim  plains  of  Hell.  In  the  misty  moonlight, 
and  with  the  winds,  that  plain  seemed  covered  with 
throngs  of  crowding  ghosts,  hastening  to  taste  for  an 
instant  the  semblance  of  vanished  life. 

The  night  brings  metamorphosis ;  it  makes  all 
things  strange  and  unfamiliar ;  it  is  a  potent  magician 
— a  great  painter  holding  a  palette  charged  with  but 
few  dim,  fugitive  colours — doubt,  mystery,  uncer- 
tainty— black,  purple,  white ;  with  these  he  makes 
glamour.  I  sought  in  it  for  the  tree  that  cast  such 
beautiful  reflection  on  the  window-panes,  thinking 
how  lovely  the  substance  would  be  that  threw  such 
shadow. 

It  was  very  old — old  and  bowed  and  gnarled, 
twisted  past  all  belief,  as  if  it  had  sunk  contorted 
beneath  the  weight  of  untold  years.  It  made  an 
impression  of  desolate  misery  on  me,  as  if  I  had 
come  suddenly  in  the  wind  and  storm  upon  some 
bent  old  woman,  shuddering  away  from  her  loneliness 
and  age,  deserted,  hideous,  forgotten.  Yet  the  shadow 
on  the  glass  was  graceful,  happy,  young,  dancing 
with  the  delight  of  all  young  things  in  the  rushing 
wind,  weaving  patterns  of  happiness,  exquisite 
thoughts,  as  if  moving  to  gay  melodies.  A  strange 
thing  that ! — and  bne  that  moved  to  strange  thoughts. 
Presently  I  thought  that  the  moon  saw  that  tree  as  it 

100 


Silhouettes 

was  truly,  before  two  hundred  years  of  sunshine,  of 
storms  and  rains  and  snows,  had  hidden  its  sem- 
blance from  mortal  sight.  The  form  cast  on  the 
blank  glass  was  the  reality,  stripped  of  outward 
excrescences  and  disfiguring  crookedness, — the  soul 
of  the  tree  in  its  beauty.  I  could  not  see  it ;  I  was 
too  near  the  brown  earth,  too  blinded  by  its  limita- 
tions ;  but  the  moon,  far  above  all  the  mists  and 
glamour,  saw  it  truly  and  set  it  forth  on  the  mirror- 
like  glass,  against  the  night  and  storm. 

So  it  came  to  me,  as  I  looked,  that  as  it  was  with 
the  white  acacia  so  it  might  be  with  us  also.  How 
many  of  us  who  are  ungainly  and  crooked  to  the 
mortal  eye  would  throw,  in  the  moonlight  of  clear- 
seeing,  a  shadow  that  was  all  beauty  and  youth? 
The  beauty  and  youngness  of  immortality,  some 
there  are  on  whose  soul-casement  the  shadow  falls 
perceptible  even  to  the  dullest,  set  out  in  lines  of 
light  against  the  dark.  With  others  it  is  merely  a 
glimpse — again,  we  guess  at  its  presence,  but  never 
see  it  at  all.  And  I  think  it  may  be  that  the  shadow 
is  the  reality,  and  the  reality  only  shadow :  the 
shadow  that  melts  and  decays,  and  flies  out  on  the 
wind  of  Eternity  from  the  crucible  of  the  great 
alchemist  Death. 

And  it  may  be  also  that  those  who  present  them- 
selves to  us  in  forms  of  strength  and  harmonious 

101 


The  Measure  of  Life 


proportion,  pleasing  to  eye  and  mind,  may  cast  a 
shadow  crookedly  enough  in  the  moonlight  of  per- 
spective ;  things  evil  in  their  ugliness,  undiscovered 
till  night  and  storm  make  metamorphosis  of  them. 
Surely  beauty  shown  like  that  is  the  expression  of 
God,  and  ugliness  that  of  Evil,  because  both  are 
spiritual  in  their  quality,  and  convincing  from  within. 
It  is  the  hidden  reality  that  impresses  itself  on  the 
world  that  counts  in  the  end,  as  having  been  lovely 
and  pleasant,  or  revolting  hideousness.  Drab 
mediocrity  is  too  insignificant  for  damnation,  too 
commonplace  for  the  realization  of  eternal  bliss. 

There  came  to  my  mind,  as  I  stood  watching,  the 
remembrance  of  a  story  told  me  by  the  Brown 
People  on  a  sea-girt  islet  in  the  far  Pacific — the  story 
of  a  lover  hidden  by  enchantment  from  the  woman 
who  sought  him,  as  Psyche  sought  Eros  ;  amid  pain 
and  travail  of  soul  and  body.  How,  when  at  last  she 
found  him,  he  was  changed  into  the  likeness  of  an 
old  man  newly  dead,  propped  against  a  peepul  tree, 
and  she  weeping  in  despair,  made  of  her  tears  a  pool 
on  the  grass,  and,  looking  therein,  saw  the  face  of  her 
lover,  and,  bestowing  on  the  old  dead  man  the  three 
kisses  of  faith  and  life  and  love,  brought  him  to  her 
arms  in  all  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  his  youth. 

The  hidden  reality  invisible  to  the  eyes  was 
mirrored  in  the  glass  of  her  sorrow,  as  the  outline  of 

102 


Silhouettes 

the  tree  was  cast  upon  the  glass.  Only  the  substance 
of  the  immortal  part  showed  in  the  reflection.  The 
gods  showed  themselves  to  men  by  a  light  which 
shone  visibly  from  them,  setting  them  forth  in  the 
likeness  of  humanity,  made  as  men,  only  more 
beautiful,  more  stately,  perfect.  So  in  the  light  of 
truth  we  may  look  past  the  twistings  of  infirmity  and 
age,  sorrow  and  sickness,  and  see  the  loveliness,  the 
strength  and  youth,  that  lie  hidden  away.  "Aurum 
in  comis  et  in  tunicis,  ibi  inflexum  hie  intextum" 
(The  golden  fibre  shows  in  every  hair,  the  golden 
thread  in  every  tunic). 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be  pointed  out  to 
us  by  "  the  Lord  of  terrible  aspect " — mighty,  un- 
conquerable Love,  and  through  tears.  He  stands  by 
us,  as  he  did  by  the  Florentine,  weeping,  till  through 
his  tears  we  see,  as  the  moon  sees,  clearly,  with  no 
mists  between.  Lord  of  Life  and  Death,  as  he  is,  we 
must  needs  do  his  bidding,  and  see  what  he  wills, 
otherwise  he  is  our  Medusa,  and  we  are  frozen  into 
stone,  losing  all  semblance  to  humanity,  petrified  into 
our  own  image. 

It  may  well  be  that  the  moment  of  clear  seeing  is 
put  off  till  the  wind  from  beyond  the  grave  tosses  the 
branches  high,  and  throws  the  shadow  on  the 
darkling  glass.  We  may  keep  no  white  nights,  for 
the  thinking  of  long  thoughts,  that  go  out  beyond 

103 


The  Measure  of  Life 


life,  to  the  life  to  come.  And  we  may,  like  the 
Roman  Emperor,  "live  as  on  a  mountain,"  remote, 
with  the  things  that  most  concern  us. 

And  happy  they  who  see  past  the  substance  to 
the  reality  that  is  in  the  shadow,  and  to  whom  come 
the  storm  and  darkness,  and  the  presence  of  the 
dead  with  the  perception  that  goes  past  all  preten- 
sions and  disguise,  to  the  living,  actual  truth,  which 
can  recognize  the  substance  in  the  shadow  and  the 
shadow  in  substance. 


104 


THE   GOLDEN   RULE 

T)  Y  what  rule  shall  we  regulate  life  so  that  we  may 
"*^  attain  to  a  perfect  knowledge  of  ourselves  ? 
Science  can  tell  us  little.  It  stands  on  the  outer 
edge  of  a  hidden  world  all  belonging  to  us,  but 
which  we  cannot  claim,  for  the  reason  that  we  are  so 
ignorant  of  it.  Now  and  again  the  gloom  which 
covers  it  lifts  a  little,  and  we  learn  breathlessly  some 
truly  astounding  fact  concerning  ourselves  and  our 
destiny.  But  so  far  no  traveller  has  returned  from 
the  far  bourne  to  assure  us  certainly  what  we  have 
been,  what  we  are,  and  to  what  we  go  on.  It  was  in 
the  dusk  of  a  summer  evening,  and  I  walked  with 
Elinor  in  the  old  rose-garden.  The  twilight  had  come 
very  "close.  I  had  seen  it  creeping  slowly  off  the 
inner  garden  across  the  wall,  drifting  in  pearly 
wreaths  over  the  close-shaven  lawn,  under  the  droop- 
ing branches  of  walnut,  beech,  and  hazel. 

A  low-growing  maiden's-blush  had  surrounded 
itself  with  a  cloud  of  sweet  heady  perfume,  its  pink- 
ish-white blossoms  showing  vaguely  through  the 
fragrant  gloom.  From  under  it,  as  we  passed  by» 

105 


The  Measure  of  Life 


came  a  halting  little  white  form  and  sat  on  the  box- 
bordered  walk  before  us. 

"  That  is  the  poor  crippled  white  cat,"  exclaimed 
Elinor ;  "  I  must  speak  to  her."  She  knelt  down  on 
the  path  and  stroked  the  cat  gently,  murmuring  after 
her  sweet,  compassionate  fashion  the  while. 

The  cat  had  lost  its  right  front  leg.  It  lifted  the 
remaining  paw  and  patted  its  mistress  softly  on  the 
cheek  three  times,  then  crept  away  under  the  rose 
again.  Elinor  remained  on  the  path,  gazing  up  at 
me  in  surprise. 

"  Oh ! "  she  gasped,  "  I  feel  as  if  she  had  reproved 
me  for  pitying  her." 

"  Perhaps  she  did,"  I  ventured ;  "  how  can  we 
tell  ?  She  may  understand  why  she  was  caught  in 
the  trap  and  maimed  so  horribly." 

"  Perhaps,"  repeated  Elinor,  helplessly ;  "  but  I  do 
not  know."  She  rose,  and  we  resumed  our  walk  in 
silence  that  lasted  one  round  of  the  old-fashioned 
garden. 

"  Murgien/'  began  Elinor,  abruptly,  "  I  always  feel 
with  that  poor  little  thing  that  she  is  under  a  spell, 
and  she  comes  to  me,  looking  up  with  human  eyes  out 
of  her  pretty  animal  head,  and  begs  me  to  remember 
the  word  that  will  set  her  free.  '  Alas !  Snowy,'  I 
say,  '  I  do  not  know  it ; '  and  we  sorrow  together  for  a 
moment  before  she  creeps  away  again  to  hide.  Do 

106 


The  Golden  Rule 


not  smile  at  me.  I  think  I  see  in  her  eyes  the  agony 
of  a  soul  in  durance." 

I  went  homewards  through  the  summer  dusk, 
thinking  over  this,  along  with  other  things,  and 
wondered  to  myself  at  the  little  we  know,  what  we 
are,  where  we  are,  what  surrounds  us,  whither  we  are 
bound. 

It  was  hot  and  breathless  in  the  dark  hours  ; 
there  was  no  moon,  and  a  storm  was  working  up  in 
the  motionless  atmosphere.  Presently,  with  one 
clattering  snap,  the  tension  broke  and  the  rain  came 
down,  a  soft  pattering  of  thousands  of  fairy  feet  on 
the  thirsty  leaves  and  grass.  I  sat  at  my  open 
window  rejoicing  as  if  I  were  some  green  thing.  The 
keen  sweet  odour  of  wet  earth,  of  drinking  grass  and 
leaf  and  flower,  filled  me  with  a  passion  of  delight. 
The  fragrance  of  elder-blossom,  of  rose,  and  privet 
spires,  of  drenched  mignonette  and  carnations,  rushed 
up  to  me  in  joyous  gusts,  as  if  it  were  the  happiness 
of  the  growing  things  in  which  I  had  my  part ;  for  I 
understood  it  all. 

My  friend  Fiontuin,  the  Master  of  Dreams,  who 
cannot  but  show  the  truth,  touched  me  in  the  sweet 
warm  gloom,  and  showed  me  a  vision  of  Being, 
beginning  in  the  kindly  brown  earth — Hertha,  mother 
of  all  living,  to  whom  we  all  return,  on  whose  bosom 
the  grass  grows  and  the  flowers  bloom,  sinless  and 

107 


The  Measure  of  Life 


joyful,  swinging  in  sun  and  wind.  To  love  a  thing 
perfectly  is  the  result  of  perfect  knowledge.  The 
understanding  of  a  thing  can  only  be  gained  by  being. 
Might  it  not  be  that  our  love  of  flower  and  leaf  and 
tree,  of  the  green  grass  and  the  flowing  stream,  is 
because  the  life  within  us  has  come  through  and 
permeated  them  all  ? 

The  disciples  of  evolution  tell  us  we  cannot  be 
immortal,  that  there  is  no  soul  in  us,  because  we  have 
risen  by  slow  and  painful  stages  from  one  degree  to 
another,  till  we  have  arrived  at  our  present  stage. 
And  what  if  we  have  ?  What  if  the  All- Wise  Master 
has,  with  infinite  pains  and  carefulness,  brought  us 
stage  by  stage  up  the  ascending  planes  ?  Is  that  to 
say  there  are  no  more  to  climb  ?  If  the  Life  has 
pulsed  joyfully  in  leaf  and  bloom,  in  this  or  that 
creature  on  the  plane  below,  is  there  not  the  more 
reason  to  think  that  hidden  away  on  the  plane  above 
are  other  and  more  beautiful  stages  of  being  ?  I  have 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  maimed  white  cat  just  such  a 
look  as  one  might  see  in  crippled  humanity.  Who  is 
to  tell  us  when  the  soul  comes  ?  or  what  example  our 
dumb  dependents  are  taking  from  ourselves,  so  much 
farther  on  in  the  journey?  I  think  the  Great  In- 
tention is  beauty.  Everything  in  creation  is  formed 
with  such  beauty,  such  grace  and  perfection,  that  one 
must  needs  see  that.  But  sometimes  the  Intention  is 

1 08 


The  Golden  Rule 


marred  and  broken — never  by  suffering  or  sorrow  : 
but  by  what  is  called  pleasure — what  is  certainly 
selfishness  and  sin.  It  must  be  sin  to  be  ugly,  for 
no  good  thing  is  made  other  than  beautiful. 

The  exertion  of  will  is  surely  the  greatest  factor 
in  life,  and  we  can  will  ourselves  to  beauty  by  the 
performance  of  beautiful  things — compassion,  pity, 
tenderness,  charity — not  in  the  giving  of  alms,  but  in 
love  and  compassion  for  our  kind.  All  these  make 
beauty ;  they  can  show  through  all  disguise  as  the 
expression  of  God-Love.  And  love  is  beauty. 

So  that  in  not  living  beautifully  we  are  hindering 
ourselves  in  the  ascent,  hampering  our  progress, 
making  stumbling-blocks  of  ourselves  for  others. 

The  East  teaches  that  those  who  think  unkindly, 
who  speak  evilly  of  others,  who  are  guilty  of  gross 
pleasures,  and  who  subserve  their  wills  to  the  desires 
of  vanity  for  the  sake  of  advancement  in  this  world, 
will  be  born  into  crooked  and  ugly  bodies  in  their 
next  existence.  The  woman  who  betrays  her  friend, 
the  man  who  sells  his  opinions,  will  come  again,  in 
the  likeness  of  their  thoughts,  deformed.  They  make 
themselves. 

In  the  East  I  have  heard  a  woman  say,  "  Oh !  I 
cannot  do  that ;  I  would  be  born  next  time  a  hunch- 
back." 

That  may  not  be  true.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
109 


The  Measure  of  Life 


would  be  bold  who  would  say  that  it  could  not  be 
so, — for  even  in  this  life  we  make  ourselves.  The 
miser,  the  evil-speaker,  the  drunkard  and  glutton,  and 
those  who  deny  the  claims  of  humanity ;  those  who 
ignore  the  poor,  the  suffering,  the  outcast ; — see  how 
they  have  made  themselves  !  Furtive  eyes,  hard 
mouths,  unlovely  jaws,  forbidding  countenances. 
They  have  no  love,  so  no  love  is  theirs.  The  false, 
the  wholly  mean,  the  unreal,  have  no  beauty  ;  theirs 
is  the  hard  and  stony  afterwards,  for  even  here  we 
have  a  choice  of  ways.  We  can  make  ourselves  as 
we  will,  beautiful  or  otherwise. 

Paracelsus  says  that  the  young  of  lions  are  born 
dead  and  must  be  waked  by  their  parent's  roaring. 
So  one  might  think  that  the  evil  we  have  in  us  is 
dormant  till  we  come  in  contact  with  the  world  ,and 
it  is  waked  by  the  roaring  of  our  passions.  It  wakes 
and  sleeps  and  wakes  again.  Yet  men  have  fought 
with  lions  and  conquered  because  of  their  own 
intuitive  knowledge  of  the  beast — the  thing  they 
were.  It  is  as  if  the  brute  speaks  to  the  human 
across  a  hidden  and  narrow  gulf,  of  which  there  is  no 
knowledge  how  it  was  crossed,  or  if  there  is  a  way 
back.  Yet,  looking  down  on  it  from  where  we  are,  we 
are  suddenly  assured  of  the  other  and  higher  stages 
to  which  we  are  climbing  through  great  dole  and 
affliction. 

no 


The  Golden  Rule 


We  grasp  back  at  the  knowledge  we  possess, 
secure  in  its  truth ;  with  it  we  can  realize  also  the 
beauty  beyond,  higher  and  nobler  than  we  can  yet 
comprehend.  The  Master  shows  the  way ;  the  rule 
is  brief  and  unmistakable — only  over  our  dead  selves 
can  we  attain  to  higher  things — unknown  and  past 
all  human  thought  and  expression. 

Zoroaster  had  a  rule  which  taught  him  who  would 
control  "  The  Operations  of  Life."  It  taught  purity 
of  mind  and  body ;  that  to  be  immaculately  pure  in 
mind  and  body  was  to  attain  to  perfection  of  Spirit ; 
and  the  Spirit  which  knows  all  things  is  beautiful, 
because  is  is  all  things.  He  might  not  in  his  pro- 
bation satisfy  his  hunger  or  thirst,  but  was  taught  to 
share  all  he  had  with  the  poor  and  suffering.  He 
might  not  refuse  the  cry  of  any,  or  wear  soiled 
garments,  or  look  upon  a  gross  thing,  or  possess 
money  more  than  what  would  purchase  for  his 
immediate  needs.  He  was  not  allowed  to  talk  much 
— the  will  grows  best  in  silence,  in  hunger,  penitence, 
suffering,  he  learned  his  lesson.  He  abjured  idleness 
and  forgetfulness  as  being  the  enemies  of  Will,  and 
the  Will  is  Spirit  and  the  Spirit  Power,  and  Power 
meant  the  stage  above  humanity,  where  hunger  and 
thirst  and  cold  would  no  longer  need  fighting  or  the 
Passions  to  be  overcome. 

He  was  permitted   none  of  what    we  call  the 
in 


The  Measure  of  Life 


pleasures  of  this  world  because  they  hindered  his 
progress.  "Extreme  love  causes  loathing,"  said  the 
Rule.  "  Vanity  leads  to  abasement ;  uncharity  and 
much  speaking  to  loss  of  all  power." 

And  he  was  taught  to  consider  himself  as  the  dog, 
as  the  horse,  as  all  and  every  creature  might  be — so 
had  he  to  look  upon  himself  and  suffer  with  their 
wants.  Thus  gradually  the  Flame  of  Life  soars 
upward  to  the  blue  and  loses  itself  beyond,  where 
we  may  not  see. 

But  of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt :  that  it  is  only 
by  the  Golden  Rule  man  may  so  regulate  his  steps 
that  they  lead  ever  upwards  in  the  scale  of  Being. 
And  the  Rule  may  be  summed  up  in  one  word — Love. 
Love  is  beauty,  and  beauty  is  perfection.  We  may 
gain  them  both,  surely,  by  wiping  out  the  ugliness 
we  encounter. 

It  may  be,  then,  that  there  we  would  find  the 
memory  of  suffering  would  be  consumed  in  the 
splendour  of  intense  loveliness — wearing  the  guise  of 
a  physical  and  intellectual  perfection,  beyond  our 
knowledge  now,  but  to  be  revealed. 

And  what  if  we  sorrow  greatly  and  are  torn  and 
bleeding  and  broken  on  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth  ? 

"  Ferrum,  flamma,  ferae,  fluvium,  saevumque  venenum, 
Tot  tamen  has  mortes  una  corona  manet." 


112 


THE   HOUR   OF  SILENCE 

'  I  VHERE  is  a  day  in  Life  to  which  we  come 
•*•  through  chaos.  We  have  walked  with  the 
Pit  of  Fire  on  the  left  hand,  and  on  the  right  the 
Deep  Waters.  We  have  come  through  fire  and 
storm  and  flood,  and  find  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  a 
mighty  mountain  aspiring  through  the  clouds.  That 
day  is  the  Day  of  Bitterness,  and  in  it  is  the  hour  of 
silence,  when  all  the  clamour,  the  brazen  outcry,  and 
the  weeping  ceases.  There  is  no  help  in  heaven  or 
earth — no  looking  back  on  the  pleasant  valleys,  the 
grassy  flower-clad  meadowlands,  the  song  and  happi- 
ness and  laughter.  The  love  with  which  our  hearts 
brimmed  over  for  all  mankind  because  of  the  love 
that  was  ours,  the  fervid,  passionate  joy  in  being. 
We  cannot  look  beyond  the  fire  and  tempest ;  it  is  as 
if  that  time  had  never  been,  as  if  we  had  always 
dwelt,  desolate  and  alone,  in  the  still  mists  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  barrier,  shutting  out  all  hope,  all 
expectation,  all  desire.  There  is  no  life  in  the  soul 
that  day — Being  has  come  to  a  standstill.  It  hangs 
suspended,  swooning,  after  the  bitterness  of  the 

113  I 


The  Measure  of  Life 


ordeal.  It  has  no  present,  no  future,  no  past.  It  is 
like  a  pool  of  water  in  the  burnt-out  crater  of  some 
volcano,  reflecting  nothing  but  blank  mists. 

That  is  the  waiting-time  ;  in  it  we  pass  all  earthly 
things  and  can  no  longer  be  touched  by  suffering 
such  as  we  have  known — by  pain  or  loss  or  hope. 
We  are  past  it  all,  reflecting  nothing. 

The  time  will  be  like  winter — grey,  with  rolling 
fog  that  shuts  us  off  into  a  grey  silence.  There  is  a 
folding  of  the  hands,  not  in  resignation  but  in 
impotence.  The  head  is  bowed  ;  there  is  a  sense  of 
finality,  of  void  and  emptiness.  All  things  have  been 
proven,  and  all  have  failed  us.  The  storm  and 
clamour  are  over  ;  there  is  no  more.  All  is  finished — 
done  :  It  is  the  end. 

But  into  the  blank  silence  comes  a  still  small 
voice,  unheard  amid  the  roar  and  fury :  "  Be  still,  and 
know ! "  And  so  the  soul  is  still  and  learns  its  lesson 
of  power ;  learns  that  the  past  was  but  a  portion  of 
its  appointed  ordeal  and  task — that  in  it  lay  no  gain, 
no  strength,  but  only  weakness  and  failure. 

The  mists  roll  away  and  show  us  the  aspiring 
path,  not  so  impossible  or  terrible  as  it  seemed. 
There  is,  as  it  were,  a  veil  rent  from  before  the  eyes. 
We  see  what  had  been  hidden  before  clearly  and 
distinctly.  Things  appear  as  they  are,  not  as  we 
had  made  them  be.  We  have  acquired  knowledge 

114 


The  Hour  of  Silence 


in  the  silence,  knowledge  that  could  never  have 
been  ours  had  the  way  not  led  through  the  Waters  of 
Affliction  and  the  Fire.  We  are  conscious  of  a 
change :  we  will  remember  hereafter  to  judge  no 
man,  and  least  of  all  ourselves,  for  we  have  now  the 
measure  of  the  wind  and  the  weight  of  fire :  the 
essence  of  those  things  that  are  only  gained  through 
suffering,  the  height  and  depth  of  which  cannot  be 
expressed  by  mortal  speech — the  heritage  of  those 
who  follow  by  the  Way  of  Tears. 

In  that  hour  we  can  look  back  again  once  more 
on  life  and  see  it,  like  a  river,  rising  in  the  hills, 
splashing  and  foaming,  wasting  itself  in  whirling 
eddies  and  furious  rushes  aside,  this  way  and  that ; 
racing  over  the  level,  falling  hurriedly  down  the  steep 
places,  gleaming,  laughing  in  the  sun — all  prettiness, 
noise,  and  bubbles,  useless,  idle,  shallow.  Then, 
lower  down,  widening  in  its  bounds  and  taking  on, 
little  by  little,  the  burdens  of  the  peasant  folk  who 
live  along  its  banks  :  carrying  the  sweet-scented 
crops  to  market  in  the  long,  flat-bottomed  barges ; 
kissing  the  children's  feet  at  its  edge,  still  laughing, 
leaping,  curling  when  it  can,  till  it  is  at  last  confined 
in  great  gates  and  bound  in  servitude — a  bearer  of 
burdens,  black,  polluted,  and  changed,  bearing  on  its 
broad  bosom  the  wealth  of  nations,  wearily  urging  to 
the  sea.  Calling  for  it,  hungering  for  it,  yet  hindered 


The  Measure  of  Life 


and  kept  back  ;  yet  the  sea  calls  to  it  night  and 
day,  stealing  up  among  the  tall  ships  and  deep-laden 
barges,  the  white  ocean  steamers,  and  the  ships  of 
war. 

"  Come !  Come  !  "  sings  the  sea,  "  and  be  at  rest 
with  me.  Be  clean  and  young  again  ; "  and  the  river 
beats  against  its  bars  and  swirls  around  its  high 
bridge  piles,  hastening  to  that  cry. 

It  widens  and  spreads  into  still  water.  It  is 
strong  now,  and  there  is  no  hurry,  no  idle  foamings, 
but  the  steady,  irresistible  swiftness  of  the  current 
ever  gliding  on,  grimy,  black,  and  weary,  till  at  last 
it  meets  the  kiss  of  the  wide  sea  and  mingles  with  the 
tides  of  ocean. 

So  it  is  with  us  while  we  stand  before  the 
mountain  of  Despair.  On  the  other  side  lies  the  sea, 
smiling,  dimpling,  whispering  in  the  sun.  It  calls, 
and  we  gather  up  our  new  strength — the  strength 
born  of  silence  and  isolation — and  climb  to  the 
heights,  to  look  upon  its  face. 

All  the  noise  and  clamour  had  brought  nothing. 
It  was  meaningless ;  "  sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing."  Only  the  bitter  water  could  have  washed 
away  the  scales  from  our  eyes,  and  only  the  silence 
could  teach  us  power. 

We  'look  upwards  and  see  the  beauty  of  the 
heights  above,  and  lo  !  the  mountains  pass  into  our 

116 


The  Hour  of  Silence 


possession.  We  can  live  on  them  now,  who  had  but 
so  short  a  space  since  been  unable  to  breathe  in  so 
fine  an  atmosphere. 

True,  the  joys  and  contentments  of  life  as  we 
have  known  it  can  no  more  be  ours.  The  exquisite 
agony  through  which  we  have  come  has  changed  our 
form.  The  old  garments  no  longer  fit.  We  have 
outgrown  them.  So  the  soul  looks  on  the  thing  she 
suffered  for  and  is  lost  in  wonder.  "  Did  I  love  that 
gross  thing  ? "  she  cries.  "  Can  I  have  worshipped 
an  image  of  clay  ?" 

But  she  had  worshipped,  and  her  discovery  of  the 
baseness  of  the  idol  has  cost  her  the  pangs  of  hell. 

The  price  for  clear  vision  must  be  paid,  and  it  is 
always  the  same,  it  makes  us  anew,  and  removes  us 
from  the  plane  on  which  we  learnt  the  bitter  lesson 
to  another  where  we  see  all  things  different. 

The  spiritual  nature  is  slow  to  wake  ;  only  the 
touch  of  fire  can  stir  it  into  being,  and  it  has  many 
metamorphoses,  many  stages  of  evolution.  The 
Pagan  Hero  who  descended  into  the  land  of  the 
Dead  and  sacrificed  to  the  Shades  returned  not 
himself,  but  another.  After  Dante  had  seen  the 
Lady  of  his  Love  in  the  fields  of  asphodel  and 
amaranth  he  was  not  the  same.  We  cannot  be  the 
same  after  descending  into  the  deeps.  We  are 
changed  and  new.  I  think  most  of  us  are  like  Tarn 

117 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Lin,  in  the  old  Celtic  ballad.  We  are,  like  him,  held 
under  a  spell  we  cannot  break  save  by  knowledge 
alone. 

Under  the  compelling  hand  he  became  a  snake, 
a  dragon,  a  wolf,  a  tiger,  and  at  last  a  bar  of  red-hot 
iron.  The  molten  bar  was  dropped  into  the  dark 
waters  of  the  holy  well,  and  Tarn  Lin  emerged  in  his 
true  self,  rid  of  all  the  loathly  spell  which  made  him 
love  his  evil  enchantress  and  slight  the  real  woman 
who  dared  the  powers  of  Faery  for  his  sake. 

So  with  us  ;  we  come  through  many  dire  meta- 
morphisms  till  at  length  we  are  ourselves,  stripped  of 
all  shams  and  pretence  and  falsehood,  at  the  foot  of 
our  mountain  of  despair — alone  in  the  silence — to 
climb  to  the  summit  in  our  new  being,  powerful  and 
strong. 

When  the  silence  ends  we  have  learnt  so  much. 
Now  there  is  courage  to  look  on  the  past  and  see 
things  as  they  were.  We  recognize  the  worthlessness 
of  the  thing  for  which  we  bled.  See  how  utterly  out 
of  all  proportion  to  its  value  were  our  pangs  and 
agonies  !  It  is  as  if  one  paid  a  king's  ransom  for  a 
handful  of  glass  beads  taken  from  the  neck  of  a 
courtesan.  We  know,  seeing  them  with  open  eyes, 
that  they  are  not  precious.  But  remember  that  in 
the  light  of  the  day  that  is  gone  we  thought  them 
worth  the  price  of  a  soul.  They  would  go  ill  now 

118 


The  Hour  of  Silence 


with  harp  and  crown — cheap,  common  things,  only 
fit  for  the  dust  and  clay,  the  overturned  wine-cup 
and  the  draggled  board. 

The  suffering  we  have  endured  for  their  sake  was 
terrible  while  it  lasted.  But  it  was  ordained  for  us 
that  we  should  enter  into  our  kingdom  by  that  way, 
and  better  that  way  than  never  at  all.  Even  if  the 
kingdom  has  been  ravaged  by  fire  it  is  the  cleansing 
fire,  such  as  sweeps  over  the  dry  and  barren  bush. 
Behind  it  lie  the  scorched  and  blackened  acres,  over 
which  the  heart  weeps  and  mourns  bitterly.  But  the 
clouds  come  after  the  flame  with  the  slow-dropping 
rains  ;  and,  lo !  a  new  beauty  beside  which  the  old 
beauty  was  as  nothing. 

So  when  the  command  comes  and  we  are  bidden 
to  "  Be  still !  "  let  the  soul,  fainting  under  its  torture, 
take  courage  and  learn  to  be  strong.  It  is  not  the 
end — only  the  beginning,  and  the  ocean  of  love  lies 
on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  where  we  wait  in 
the  Hour  of  Silence. 


119 


HELL-SHOON 

T  REMEMBER  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  an 
A  afternoon  in  my  childhood  when  I  sat  astride 
the  old  garden  wall  at  my  home,  holding  a  basket 
into  which  Terence,  the  gardener — wise  old  Terence 
of  the  tuneful  voice — had  been  dropping  the  yellow- 
red  fruit  from  the  espaliered  trees  against  the  warm 
bricks.  We  were  watching  a  procession  pace  slowly, 
mournfully  along  the  wide  high  road  towards  the 
little  church  on  the  hill. 

It  was  a  day  in  late  October,  a  warm,  still,  golden 
day.  Through  the  thick  yellow  sunlight  the  gossamers 
floated  slowly  on  their  mysterious  voyages — no- 
whither.  The  thorns  across  the  road  had  clutched 
with  a  hundred  hands  at  the  laden  wains  as  they 
passed,  and  seemed  as  if  they  were  embracing  streels 
of  golden  light  amidst  their  scarlet  leaves  and 
crimsoning  haws.  The  thistledowns  stood  erect  like 
globes  of  silvery  fire,  without  the  loss  of  one  single 
spear  of  airy  radiance.  The  late  honeysuckle  stretched 
over  a  flame  of  blazing  dog-wood  puffing  vague 
fragrance  on  the  waiting  time — even  the  old  wall 

1 20 


Hell<shoon 

was  decked  with  loveliness,  and  out  of  every  clump 
of  emerald  moss  stood  up  a  splendid  array  of  tiny 
vermilion  cups,  each  with  its  drop  of  silvery  dew. 

Beautiful,  motionless,  heavy  with  content,  was  the 
day ;  blue  and  misty,  laden  with  infinite  peace,  languid 
with  the  thankfulness  of  bounteous  harvest.  Nature 
lay  smiling  half-asleep  and  happy — and  through 
the  stillness  slowly  crept  this  doleful  and  quiet  train 
of  the  unmourned  dead. 

For  this  funeral  was  unlike  any  I  had  ever  seen 
pass  that  way.  There  was  no  low,  bitter  keening ; 
no  clapping  of  hands  in  grief;  no  tears  or  cries  or 
prayers.  After  the  shabby  old  hearse  walked  a  man 
and  a  boy ;  after  them  the  white-haired  priest,  then 
the  doctor's  gig — and  that  was  all. 

Terence  shook  his  white  head  and  crossed  himself 
fervently. 

"Himself  will  be  leavin'  a  red  trail  acrost  the 
Bridge  o*  Dread  this  night,"  he  said  solemnly.  "  May 
God  pity  him  that  had  pity  for  none !  'Tis  a  poor 
naked  soul  his  will  be ! " 

"  But,"  cried  I,  "  he  is  dead — he  needs  no  clothes 
now." 

"  God  bless  your  innocence,  then  ! "  responded 
Terence,  compassionately.  "  Sure,  'tis  after  death  we 
have  most  need  to  be  clothed.  A  cloak  to  cover  the 
limbs,  an'  shoes  to  the  feet,  an'  a  bit  in  the  hand  to 

121 


The  Measure  of  Life 


throw  the  Hound  o'  Hell.  An'  'twill  go  but  ill  wi' 
this  man,  agra,  for  he  ne'er  gave  bit,  or  sup,  or  coat, 
or  shoes  to  e'er  a  wan  but  himself  in  all  his  days. 
So,  naked  as  he  came,  to  judgment  he  must  go.  God 
pity  him ! " 

I  remember  the  vivid  instantaneous  picture  that 
flashed  before  me  then  of  a  cowering  and  naked  soul 
standing  before  the  gentle,  white-clad  figure  that  was 
God  to  me,  shivering  away  from  the  sweet,  piercing 
eyes  of  Him  who  gave  all,  overcome  with  shame 
and  futile  repentance  for  the  self-centred  life  that 
had  no  thought  for  any  save  its  own ;  and  I  saw  it 
again,  miserable,  unclothed,  unblessed,  setting  out  for 
the  Bridge  of  Dread,  to  make  the  last  journey  alone. 

I  found  something  of  the  same  sort,  many  a  year 
after,  in  an  old  ballad,  sung  by  another  nation  like 
my  own — 

"  This  is  a  nfght,  this  is  a  night ;  every  night  and  alle. 
Fire  and  fleete  and  candle-light,  and  Christ  receive  thy  saul. 
When  thou  from  hence  away  art  paste,  every  night  and  alle. 
To  Whinney-moor  thou  comest  at  last,  and  Christ  receive  thy 

saul. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  or  shoon,  every  night  and  alle, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on,  and  Christ  receive  thy  saul. 
But  if  hosen  and  shoon  thou  never  gave  none,  every  night 

and  alle, 
The  \Vhinnes  shall  prick  thee  to  the  bare  bone  ;  and  Christ 

receive  thy  saul." 

So  the  ballad  runs  on.     If  you  have  given  hosen  or 

122 


Hell'shoon 

shoon,  cloak  or  coat,  or  bit  or  sup,  they  will  be 
waiting  for  the  soul's  use  after  death.  Yours  to  cross 
over  the  icy  moor,  the  Bridge  o'  Dread ;  yours  to 
quench  the  raging  fires  of  Purgatory,  so  that  you 
may  win  past  all,  to  the  everlasting  joy.  It  is  only 
obsolete  superstition — clearly  Pagan  superstition,  too 
— yet  I  have  sat  under  a  peepul  tree  in  the  blazing 
tropic  sun  and  believed  it  a  true  thing.  By  me  at 
that  time  sat  one  who  had  made  the  Great  Renuncia- 
tion ;  he  had  been  a  reigning  prince,  a  Rajah  famous 
for  his  personal  strength  and  beauty,  his  riches  and 
hospitality.  He  had  become  a  wandering  mendicant 
for  the  sake  of  his  immortal  welfare.  "A  man's 
soul,"  said  he  who  had  been  a  prince,  "goes  out  as 
it  came,  naked  and  trembling.  It  is  clothed  after 
death  in  the  garment  of  blessings,  shod  with  his  good 
deeds,  crowned  with  his  aspirations ;  or  goes  naked 
to  judgment,  and  is  thrown  into  hell,  to  be  tormented 
by  his  pleasures  and  sins." 

Why  it  is  I  cannot  tell ;  but  under  tropic  skies 
things  pertaining  to  the  life  beyond  seem  to  take  on 
an  actual  living  reality,  that  is  unknown  beneath 
these  grey  English  heavens.  Sudden  death  does  not 
stalk  silent  under  the  sad  city  trees,  or  poison  and 
the  knife  lurk  waiting  in  the  shadows.  Life  is  a  well- 
ordered,  solid  matter  of  fact.  Everything  methodic- 
ally arranged — so  much  for  necessities,  so  much  for 

123 


The  Measure  of  Life 


work,  so  much  for  pleasure ;  just  so  much  and  no 
more  for  charity — love,  sympathy,  the  helping  hand, 
the  ready  ear,  are  forgotten  outside  what  affects  the 
Self. 

There  is  an  old  Celtic  legend  that  I  have  heard. 
It  tells  how  on  every  Christmas  Eve  a  wandering 
beggar-woman,  with  a  little  child  in  her  arms,  comes 
knocking  at  the  half-door  of  some  one  old  and  poor, 
asking  for  "  a  handful  of  meal."  Many  a  time  have 
I  listened  breathless  to  how  the  beggar-woman  was 
asked  in  "  for  a  heat  of  the  fire,"  while  the  meal  was 
being  scraped  painfully  from  the  meagre  chest  in  the 
chimney-corner,  and  how  her  beauty  filled  the  little 
house  with  wonder,  of  the  light  that  glowed  about 
the  little  child  who  smiled  from  her  arms ;  and  how 
after  their  departure  the  Angel-throng  would  sweep 
rejoicing  past  on  the  frosty  night,  following  them, 
and  the  meal-chest  be  found  brimming  full. 

Once  only  did  I  ever  hear  of  the  Heavenly  Visita- 
tion coming  to  the  rich  ;  and  that  man  when  he  died 
would  have  many  hosen  and  shoon  and  cloaks  in 
plenty  awaiting  his  soul — for  his  life  was  beautiful 
in  its  love  and  charity.  Sometimes  I  wonder  how 
many  would  open  their  doors  and  purchase  unthinking 
the  wherewithal  to  clothe  themselves  for  the  Bridge 
o'  Dread,  did  that  wondrous  thing  happen  now. 
Very  many,  I  am  sure;  for  the  heart  beats  ever  warm 

124 


Hell'shoon 

and  young  under  its  rime  of  years.    The  Christ-Child 
may  not  press  the  ways  of  men  with  actual  living 
feet,  but  He  walks  invisible,  asking  for  His  own,  and 
not  in  vain.     We  give,  and  clothe  our  souls ;   yet 
perhaps  the  greatest  need  is  one  to  which  we  seldom 
minister  —  the    soul- need.     We    are    all    soul-poor, 
depending  on  one  another's  charity.    All  of  us,  rich 
and  poor  alike,  are  often  hungry,  often  starved.     The 
most  beautiful  thread  in  our  garment  may  be  that 
woven  by  sickness  and  despair.     But  the  hand  that 
flung  its  glistening  length  across  the  roaring  loom 
may  have  been   that  of  Dives,  alone  and  wretched 
amid  all  the  laughter  and  feasting — also  it  may  be 
that  of  Lazarus,  lying  among  the  dogs.     We  cannot 
tell.     But  this  much  is  sure — it  is  not  only  the  poor 
who  come  to  us  for  alms — and  all  alms  are  not  coin 
of  the  realm — there  is  the  word  of  love,  the  smile,  the 
tear,  we  are  asked  for  by  the  millionaire  as  by  the 
beggar  at  the  gate.     The  comforted  child,  weeping 
out  its  little  heart  in  the  unspeakable  sorrow  of  child- 
hood till  you  came,  may  weave  into  your  soul-garment 
a  thread  of  gold  ;  the  old  woman  to  whom  you  listen 
sympathizingly  will  work  you  a  woof  of  grey ;  and 
the  violet-seller,  freezing  in  the  bitter  wind,  throw 
across  the  warp  a  line  of  gleaming  jewels,  warm  with 
all  the  joy  your  charity  has  wrought.     Hodden  grey, 
and  priceless  gem,  scarlet  and  gold  and  green.     It  is 

125 


The  Measure  of  Life 


not  what  you  give  or  what  you  think  you  give.  It  is 
what  they  severally  found  your  gift  to  be,  that  they 
give  to  you  again.  The  old  woman  starving  in  her 
cellar  to  whom  you  sent  a  weekly  dole  may  pass 
out  of  your  mind  and  be  forgotten.  But  you  will 
remember  her  as  you  cast  the  soul-cloak  about  you 
before  setting  out  on  the  last  journey.  It  was  not 
much  to  you,  that  trifling  gift.  But  to  her !  How 
it  shines  in  the  various  folds  !  No  solitary  thread  in 
that  garment  can  be  your  own  handiwork — it  is  all 
the  offering  of  others.  You  must  be  clad  by  them. 
Cloaked  with  blessings,  shod  with  blessings ;  crowned 
by  them  at  the  very  last.  Hunger,  despair,  sorrow, 
loss,  will  cover  the  shrinking  and  terrified  soul,  and 
shield  it  from  all  ill.  Rich  and  poor,  old  and  young, 
happy  and  sorrowful,  all  whom  you  have  encountered 
in  your  lifetime  will  have  woven  some  thread  in  your 
outfit.  You  will  have  a  bit  for  the  Hound  of  Hell, 
a  plectrum  tipped  with  fire  to  light  your  shadowy 
way  over  thorns  and  flood — the  triple-headed  beast, 
the  fire  and  flame — if  we  be  true  men  we  shall  have 
met  and  fought  them  long  before  the  soul  goes  forth 
on  its  lonely  quest — so  clothed  and  shod,  and  sop  in 
hand,  we  need  not  fear  to  encounter  them  again. 
What  waits  beyond  them  all  we  cannot  know.  And 
if  it  be  so,  that  there  is  nothing  for  the  shivering  soul, 
and  it  must  even  go  forth  in  hideous  and  terrible 

126 


Helkshoon 

nakedness  to  Whinney-moor,  pierced  and  bleeding, 
weeping  and  calling  in  vain,  the  memory  of  past 
pleasures,  of  song  and  laughter  and  delight,  must  be 
our  consolation,  for  it  is  all  we  shall  have.  Of  that 
there  can  be  no  doubt. 

Seldom  indeed  does  the  king  knock  at  the  beggar- 
man's  door  in  beggar's  guise,  but  it  does  so  happen 
sometimes.  And  so  if  we  are  clothed  and  have  won 
past  all,  may  not  we  knock  at  a  door  that  will  open 
wide  on  ineffable  happiness,  and  on  love  that  was 
denied  us  here,  grown  to  proportions  past  all  human 
comprehension  ? 


127 


BLOWN  FROM    THE  INFINITE 

TNTO  the  intense  heat;  the  awful  hush  of  the 
•*•  tropic  day,  the  far-off  shore  of  Sumatra  seemed 
to  press  with  insistent  and  immediate  clamour.  The 
sonorous  purples  and  tense  blues  forced  themselves 
in  on  the  weary  consciousness,  like  the  booming 
vibration  of  some  immense  harp-string  filling  all  sea 
and  sky.  Even  while  it  was  yet  day,  the  ship's  track 
was  a  broad  way,  luminously  green  on  the  oily  expanse 
of  smooth  ocean.  The  sky — a  pitiless  dome  of  blind- 
ing lavender  blue,  unbroken  and  same,  where  the 
sun  hung  suspended  in  brazen  effulgence — intolerably 
glorious. 

Now  the  ship  lifted  on  the  smooth  swell,  now  she 
panted  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  her  masts  circling 
dizzily  on  the  shining  heavens,  with  the  hush,  the 
torpid,  leaden  hush,  of  impending  storm,  an  almost 
physical  weight  on  all.  The  skipper  pacing  the 
bridge,  with  an  anxious  eye  on  the  little  low  arch  of 
greenish  black  cloud  on  the  horizon,  was,  I  know, 
feeling  like  myself,  as  if,  Marsyas-like,  he  had  been 
flayed,  and  every  sound,  every  motion  was  agony. 

128 


Blown  from  the  Infinite 


Master-mariners  are  not  given  to  self-analysis,  but 
had  he  been  called  upon  to  describe  his  sensations, 
he  might  have  said  he  "had  no  skin  on."  It  is  a 
common  enough  feeling  before  a  big  storm,  below  the 
equator. 

And  that  low  cloud  was  not  pretty  to  look  at. 
It  contained  an  ever-increasing  semicircle  of  livid 
green,  with  an  edge  of  indigo-black,  raining  fire,  violet 
blue  and  crimson. 

Sullen,  awful,  majestic,  it  rushed  up  the  sky  till 
it  covered  half  the  horizon,  spanning  its  length  with 
zagging  shafts  of  crooked  flame. 

And  while  it  mounted,  all  the  world  was  overhung 
with  that  immense  pall  of  heavy  silence.  The  brazen 
day  receded,  and  was  shut  out  behind  the  ominous 
verge  of  green,  pierced  by  innumerable  lightnings. 
Into  the  sea  beneath,  gloomy  and  dark  as  Erebus, 
the  fires  sank  on  a  line  of  snowy  foam — the  advance- 
guard  of  Hurricane. 

Yet  the  silence  endured,  the  beat  of  the  screws, 
insistent  and  importunate,  seemed  to  drop  over  the 
verge  of  fathomless  abyss,  where  all  sound  was 
swallowed  up  into  quick  oblivion. 

There  was  only  one  idea  left  in  the  mind,  and 
that  an  overwhelming  desire  for  the  storm  to  break 
at  once  ;  the  sense  of  impotent  waiting,  of  impending 
disaster,  is  too  terrible  to  be  borne  long :  flayed  and 

129  K 


The  Measure  of  Life 


suffering,  the  physical  part  of  one  faces  annihilation 
with  rapturous  delight. 

The  decks  are  cleared,  the  hatches  battened  down. 
"  We  are  in  for  it ! "  the  skipper  had  declared ;  but 
I  choose  to  face  whatever  came  above  decks.  Not, 
perhaps,  to  go  down  to  the  depths  of  ocean,  in  the 
foul  air,  the  heat  and  confinement  of  the  saloon, 
where  Elspeth  waited  the  coming  storm.  It  is  at 
least  a  good  thing  to  meet  death  in  the  free  winds. 
It  occurred  to  me,  my  soul  would  have  some  difficulty 
in  forcing  a  way  through  decks.  In  vain  I  had  been 
urged  to  go  down.  I  had  already  settled  on  a  place 
of  refuge — behind  the  chart-room  and  facing  the 
wheel.  Eventually  I  was  left,  after  a  stern  farewell, 
shuddering  under  the  impalpable  touch  of  a  wind  that 
seemed  to  breathe  on  me  from  beyond  the  Infinite — 
cold  as  death. 

A  big  drop  splashes  on  the  white  deck  ;  the  wind 
comes  up  again,  stronger  now  and  hot,  smelling  sul- 
phurously ;  sea  and  sky  are  suddenly  lapped  in  a 
strange  blue  light.  Then,  as  if  it  were  under  the 
impact  of  flying  worlds,  the  air  reels  and  bursts  with 
awful  thunderings.  The  ship  shudders  in  all  her 
length  and  plunges  forwards  like  a  frightened  horse, 
right  under  the  green  arch.  Then  Cyclone  takes  her 
in  one  mighty  hand  and  sends  her  careering  with 
incredible  swiftness  into  a  tossing  darkness  of  wild 

130 


Blown  from  the  Infinite 


waters,  flaming  lightning,  terrible  thunderings.  Away 
on  the  port  side  a  waterspout  is  dancing  and  whirling, 
— a  column  of  black  phosphorescent  glass  against  the 
green  sky.  The  ship  staggers  as  she  meets  the  furious 
outburst  of  wind  and  rain.  Now  she  flies  up  the 
mountainous  ascents  of  water,  to  touch  the  lightnings 
with  her  bowsprit ;  now  I  hang  grimly  on  to  the 
chart-room  door,  while  she  points  to  the  glimmering 
depths  of  ocean.  It  is  like  chaos  come  again,  and 
she  in  the  midst  of  it ;  in  contrast  to  the  terrible 
silence  is  all  the  wild,  passionate  outcry  of  the 
elements  in  conflict. 

At  first  absolute  terror  holds  me  spellbound  ;  then 
comes  the  sense  of  boundless  relief  that  at  least  the 
waiting  is  past ;  the  worst  has  come — it  is  no  longer 
hanging  overhead.  With  the  tumult  comes  a  relaxing 
of  the  strings  of  being  and  exaltation  in  the  cool,  the 
freedom  from  pain,  the  conflict.  It  is  hand  to  hand, 
foot  to  foot.  The  little  man  on  the  bridge  against 
Nature  in  a  passion.  And  whatever  happens,  surely 
in  such  a  struggle  there  will  be  opportunities  for 
soaring  to  heights  unknown  in  times  of  peaceful 
calm. 

The  vessel  heels  and  rights  herself  to  meet  a  great 
sea.  It  boils  over  the  bows  and  goes  hissing  along 
the  decks,  drenching  me  to  the  skin.  But  it  heals  as 
it  sweeps  along.  I  see  the  man  at  the  wheel  straighten 


The  Measure  of  Life 


himself  and  sigh.  It  is  the  magical  touch  of  the  deep 
sea.  I  am  not  afraid  now!  Headlong  she  rushes 
down  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  then  climbs  pantingly 
up  again ;  it  is  like  being  on  a  gigantic  see-saw 
between  sea  and  sky,  and  every  now  and  again 
the  great  waves  sweep  the  decks  and  flatten  me 
into  a  corner  of  the  chart-room,  breathless  and 
thankful. 

The  tumult  of  creation  surrounds  us — the  primal 
darkness,  shot  with  intermittent  fires.  Lightnings 
blaze  along  the  ship's  sides  and  leap  along  her  masts ; 
the  impermeable  gloom  is  rent  apart  by  swords  of 
crooked  fire  and  show  appalling  glimpses  of  a  sky 
beyond,  blue  and  serene,  where  no  tempest  rages. 
Ocean  in  a  mountainous  expanse  of  luminous  phos- 
phorescence— awesome,  indescribable;  and  through 
all  the  din  and  uproar  comes  a  thin  thread  of  music. 
Elspeth  in  the  saloon  is  singing  an  old  Scots  Psalm 
tune ;  it  sounds  like  an  echo  from  another  world,  left 
long  time  ago  and  almost  forgotten. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  stands  grim  and  stern ;  now 
he  is  holding  on  to  the  spokes  at  right  angles  as  the 
ship  careens ;  now  he  seems,  by  sheer  force  of  will 
and  strength,  to  be  keeping  her  back  from  the  edge 
of  destruction.  Our  eyes  meet,  but  he  sees  through 
me — I  do  not  exist  as  an  entity  for  him  now ;  I  am 
simply  something  unusual,  not  to  be  thought  of. 

132 


Blown  from  the  Infinite 


I  see  the  skipper  hanging  over  the  bridge,  tense 
as  a  figure  cast  in  bronze  in  his  streaming  ducks,  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  to  shield  them  from  the  deluge  of 
warm  rain.  "  Full  speed  ahead  ! "  We  are  racing  the 
storm,  and  on  its  outside  edge.  It  is  neck  or  nothing 
with  the  skipper. 

I  wedge  myself  firmly  in  the  chart-room,  and  am 
conscious  of  nothing  but  the  uproar  and  turmoil  with- 
out— I  am  lifted  on  great  waves  and  carried  to  the 
skies,  am  plunged  into  depths  incredible.  Now  flung 
this  way,  now  that,  as  the  ship  reels  and  staggers, 
racing  all  the  while,  buffeted  alike  by  sea  and 
wind  ;  and  through  it  all  I  hear,  as  in  a  dream, 
the  thin,  clear  sweetness  of  Elspeth's  psalm,  "  Lord, 
hear  the  voice  of  my  complaint ! " — and  it  seems 
to  go  on  for  hours,  though  it  may  have  lasted  only 
one. 

Suddenly  a  wall  of  water — black,  Cyclopean — 
billows  from  below  the  bows  and  obscures  the  world. 
Colossally  awful,  it  shuts  out  life  and  hope.  Its 
sable  immensity  is  shot  with  strange  glimmerings 
and  gleamings  of  greenish  gold.  It  threatens  us 
with  an  immediate  blotting  out.  I  have  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  ocean  floor,  where  "bones  are  coral 
made,"  and  wonder  if  it  takes  long  to  drown !  For 
an  instant  the  ship  hangs  at  the  base  of  the  precipice 
of  black  water,  then  begins  to  climb,  her  bowsprit 

133 


The  Measure  of  Life 


pointing  steeply  upwards,  her  engines  beating  dolor- 
ously. She  hangs  balanced  on  its  heaven-touching 
crest,  the  screws  racing,  her  timbers  all  trembling 
giddily.  Then  the  gigantic  sea  subsides,  and 

The  air  is  full  of  butterflies !  All  the  storm  is 
behind  us,  the  sea  is  a  plain  of  sapphire  covered  with 
white-maned  waves.  The  sun  shines.  There  is  hardly 
any  wind,  and  a  cloud  of  wide-winged  lovely  things, 
passing  silent  and  wonderful  in  the  track  of  the  over- 
blown storm. 

Blue-winged,  painted  in  every  tint  of  iridescent 
azure,  turquoise,  cerulean,  hyacinth,  white,  and  shining 
yellow,  they  flutter  noiseless  and  almost  impalpable 
through  the  rigging,  on  after  the  whirlwind  and 
driving  rain.  As  far  as  one  can  see,  over  the  miles 
of  broken  water  sparkling  in  the  sun,  this  mystical 
flight  of  beautiful  painted  things  follows  on  the  heels 
of  devastation. 

I  left  my  stronghold  in  the  chart-room,  and  stood 
dripping  at  the  side  to  watch  them.  On  for  hours 
they  passed  in  silent,  winged  battalions,  urging  to 
some  unknown  goal.  The  hatches  were  removed, 
the  lights  all  raised,  and  the  ship  resumed  her  wonted 
aspect.  Elspeth  came  up  on  deck  and  stood  beside 
me,  white-faced  and  serene,  to  watch  the  silent-winged 
hosts  speeding  on  their  way. 

"What  do  you  think  this  may  mean  ?"  I  asked 
134 


Blown  from  the  Infinite 


her.     "  Surely  no  one  ever  saw  so  strange  a  sight  on 
a  storm-driven  sea." 

Now  Elspeth  comes  from  Inishmurray,  for  all  her 
Highland  name,  and  this  was  her  reply — 

"  They  will  be  the  souls  of  the  gentle  Brown  People 
who  have  gone  out  in  this  terrible  storm." 

"  Not  so  far  out,"  said  I. 

"Then,"  demanded  she,  "for  what  will  they  be 
going  so  far  on  the  green  tide,  and  they  but  butter- 
flies?" 

At  sunset  they  were  winging  past  us  still  over  the 
heaving  waste  of  sea,  a  miracle  of  beauty,  mysteriously 
intent  on  that  strange  journey.  Out  of  the  void  of 
immeasurable  distances  they  had  been  swept  by  the 
mighty  wind ;  into  the  illimitable  they  were  blown 
again.  Who  can  say  if  they  were  not  the  souls  of 
the  happy,  sinless  brown  folks,  whose  lives  had  gone 
out  in  the  great  hurricane  that  raged  simultaneously 
at  that  time  among  the  Pacific  Islands  ? 

I  stood  by  the  man  at  the  wheel  as  the  last  of 
them  fluttered  by.  It  paused  over  him,  circled  round 
his  head,  flew  up,  down,  and  up  again,  finally  alighting 
on  the  clenched  right  hand  that  held  the  spoke,  its 
glorious  wings  opening  and  shutting,  as  if  it  breathed 
in  their  beauty. 

Then  it  rose  again,  and  seemed  to  resolve  into  the 
blueness  of  the  sea. 

135 


The  Measure  of  Life 


And  once  more  my  eyes  met  those  of  the  man  at 
the  wheel,  and  his  were  like  dark  mirrors  reflecting 
misery  and  affright. 

"Come  away!  come  away!"  whispered  Elspeth. 
"  For  that  will  be  the  farewell  of  Love." 


13* 


SONGS   IN  THE   RAIN 

Conal  lives  by  himself  now ;  the  last  of  his 
five  sons  was  carried  home  to  him  nearly  two 
years  ago,  his  dark  hair  wet  with  the  Lough  Neagh 
waters,  his  icy  lips  set  in  an  untroubled  smile.  Since 
then  old  Conal  has  hardly  left  the  cabin  on  the  bog- 
side  overlooking  the  wide  expanse  of  strange  waters 
beloved  of  all  the  fairy  folk. 

He  is  a  handloom  weaver — a  thinker,  and  a  poet 
whose  songs  are  known  to  the  peasantry  only, 
because  they  are  unwritten  songs,  recited  and  sung 
by  those  who  know  his  beautiful  life,  and  love  him. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  me ;  and  I  walked  across 
the  bogland  in  the  driving  summer  rain,  opened  the 
swinging  half-door,  and  sat  down  by  his  hearth, 
where  the  turf  smouldered  in  the  white  ashes,  while 
Conal's  shuttle  flew  to  and  fro  in  the  snowy  web  and 
the  treadles  clicked  beneath  his  brogued  feet. 

It  was  raining  with  the  steady,  tireless  persistency 
that  only  midsummer  knows.  A  curtain  of  liquid 
silver  dripped  from  the  low  thatch  to  the  box- 
bordered  flower-bed,  where  Conal's  youngest  and 

137 


The  Measure  of  Life 


best-loved  son  had  grown  pansies  and  pinks  and 
southernwood  to  make  Sunday  posies  for  his  sweet- 
heart. 

Beyond  the  privet-hedge  ran  the  high  road,  a 
tumultuous  waterway,  broken  by  yellow  falls  ;  the 
reed-filled  ditch,  thick  with  pungent  mint  and  water- 
cresses  ;  and  then  the  flat  expanse  of  level  bog, 
dotted  with  Noah's  Ark-shaped  turf-stacks  and 
oblong  patches  of  grey  water ;  then,  reaching  to  the 
farthest  horizon,  the  leaden  waters  of  the  haunted 
lough. 

All  the  life  and  colour  and  joyousness  had  been 
wept  off  the  face  of  Nature.  Nothing  remained  save 
a  brooding  sense  of  misery  and  chill  remoteness  ;  the 
keen,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  wet  earth,  and  the 
pungent  odour  of  the  downward-pressed  peat  reek, 
blue  and  thin,  brought  no  faintest  comfort  to  the 
desolate  aspect  of  things.  All  the  world  was 
sorrowing. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  faint  stir  in  the  clump  of 
dejected  meadow-sweet  growing  on  the  ditch  edge 
opposite  the  door;  a  little  dark  thing  clove  the  cloud 
of  rain-drops  and  soared  upwards  to  the  lowering 
sky,  filling  it  with  rapturous  monology. 

Conal  looked  up  from  the  satiny  web  and  broke 
the  silence. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  he  mused,  half  to  me  and  wholly 
138 


Songs  in  the  Rain 


to  himself,  "  that  the  sweetest  songs  are  sung  in  the 
rain.  Hark,  now !  did  ye  ever  hear  him  sing  like 
that  before  ? " 

"Never,"  I  admitted  grudgingly;  "I  think  it  is 
exceeding  foolish  of  him.  Why  should  he  sing  like 
that  in  the  rain  ? " 

"  'Tis  just  a  something  that's  in  us  all — wimmen 
an*  birds  an'  men.  When  there's  no  sunshine  an' 
the  rain's  fallin'  heavy,  we  set  to  an'  sing  of  the  sun, 
the  blue  sky,  and  the  joys  of  yesterday.  Aye  !  aye  ! 
yesterday  was  beautiful — 'twas  ever  an'  ever  brighter 
than  to-day — becas  'tis  gone  !  " 

The  loom  and  the  patter  of  the  rain  filled  in  a 
thoughtful  silence.  The  grey  light  filtered  through 
the  narrow  casement  by  which  he  sat,  and  showed 
me  a  pure,  dreamy  old  face,  and  a  fine  head  haloed 
by  silvery  hair — the  face  and  head  of  an  ideal  poet. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  I  protested.  "Why 
should  we  sing  of  yesterday?  When  it  was  to-day, 
it  was  never  what  we  craved." 

The  shuttle  flew  athwart  the  shimmering  web 
seven  times  before  he  answered. 

"  To-day,"  he  said  absently,  as  one  who  dreamed 
while  he  spoke.  "  Who  knows  to-day  ?  Not  you, 
nor  me.  The  young  live  in  to-morrow,  the  old  in 
yesterday.  To-day  is  too  near.  When  it  is  coming, 
we  see  it  bringing  all  we  desire  and  hunger  for. 

139 


The  Measure  of  Life 


When  it  is  gone,  we  see  it  taking  that  which  we 
never  had.  But  while  it  was  to-day  it  flayed  our 
souls  with  disappointment.  Ye  never  heard,  now,  a 
song  about  to-day  that  tore  the  heart  out  of  you 
with  misery  for  what  it  lost  ?  But  there's  many  an' 
many  a  one  that  would  melt  the  heart  of  stone  with 
the  cry  for  vanished  yesterday. 

"  I  have  a  great  thought  comin'  to  me  sometimes 
while  I  sit  weavin*  here  all  alone,  watchin'  the  warp 
an'  the  woof.  Perhaps  when  we  die  we'll  be  findin* 
stored  up  for  us  all  the  things  we  hoped  for  in  to- 
morrow and  lost  in  yesterday,  all  we  hoped  to  win 
and  looked  to  keep,  all  we  miss  and  yearn  for  vainly. 
The  touch,  the  kiss,  the  look,  and  word.  Aye,  an* 
all  we  looked  to  be  and  to  do.  Wouldn't  that  be 
fine,  now  ? " 

"  It  would,  indeed,"  I  admitted,  wondering  at  the 
fine  flower  of  poesy  nourished  in  this  old  weaver's 
quiet  soul.  "  Quite  beautiful,  Conal." 

"You  will  be  findin'  a  lot  that  time  ? " 

"Yes:  all  the  dust  and  ashes  that  the  present 
ever  brings." 

"There  will  be  good  seed  hidden  in  them,"  re- 
flected Conal,  admiringly.  "  It  will  nourish  the  songs 
you  will  be  singin'  some  day  in  the  rain,  mabby. 
See  now,  it  isn't  till  the  rain  comes  ye  think  of  singin' 
at  all ;  it's  when  ye  want  to  make  the  glamour  and 

140 


Songs  in  the  Rain 


bring  the  sunshine  back.  We  all  sing  better  in  the 
rain." 

"  Perhaps,"  I  conceded,  "  if  one  is  sheltered — then 
it  does  not  matter." 

"Ah,  but  it  isn't  good  to  be  always  sheltered," 
admonished  Conal.  "The  rain  comes  a  long  way 
down.  Mabby  bein'  out  in  it  without  shelter  helps 
once  in  a  while  to  know  the  disinherited  ones,  who 
have  ne'er  a  shelter  at  any  time.  The  rain  an'  the 
wind  teach  understandin'  to  the  soul." 

A  scrap  of  verse  filtered  through  the  click-clack 
of  the  loom  and  the  susurration  of  the  weeping 
skies — 

"  O  wind  ;  O  mighty,  melancholy  wind — 

Blow  through  me,  blow. 
Thou  blowest  forgotten  things  into  my  mind 
From  long  ago." 

"Aye,"  agreed  Conal,  dreamily;  "that's  what  I 
meant,  but  could  not  say.  Mabby  that's  a  bit  from 
some  song  in  the  rain  ?  " 

"  I  think  very  likely." 

"There's  an  old  story  told  roun'  this  lough," 
mused  he,  "that  the  ocean  is  salt  with  the  tears  of 
all  the  wimmen  whose  hearts  have  been  broke  since 
the  world  was  made.  An'  so  I'm  thinkin'  perhaps 
the  wind  an'  the  rain  is  full  of  the  grand  and  the 
great  things  men  have  said  an'  done  since  that  time, 

141 


The  Measure  of  Life 


too.  For,  see  now :  if  ye  take  the  sword  of  Sorrow 
in  your  ban*  an'  go  out  there  on  the  bog  and  measure 
a  mile,  'twill  be  a  mile  of  space  to  you,  and  you  can 
walk  across  its  bounds  into  infinitude — walk  with 
your  head  among  the  stars  an*  hear  all  the  songs 
ever  sung,  tuned  into  one  great  soarin'  note.  That 
note  is  the  Divine  Substance.  Once  hear  it  an*  all 
yourself  will  be  emptied  out,  an'  no  room  in  ye  for 
anything  but  it — the  Essence  of  Creation." 

"  Conal,  have  you  wings  to  reach  Infinite  Space 
and  forget  time  ? " 

"Ne'er  a  wing  do  you  need  other  than  the 
Almighty  has  clapped  on  your  own  shoulders.  Don't 
we  all  wish  ?  " 

"  Mostly  in  vain ! " 

The  shuttle  hung  suspended  on  the  selvage  of  the 
web,  while  Conal  bent  over,  his  face  touched  with 
white  fire  and  his  eyes  ashine. 

"  Never  say  that !  If  the  wish  is  a  good  wish,  'tis 
never  in  vain.  When  the  ground  is  hard  with  frost, 
and  the  roof  drips  ice,  'tis  onreasonable  to  wish  for 
roses.  But  when  spring  shines,  the  roses  will  surely 
come,  for  all  that." 

"Yes,"  I  protested,  "when  I  no  longer  desire 
roses." 

A  curious  smile  flickered  across  the  old  weaver's 
pale  face,  and  he  set  the  shuttle  flying  again. 

142 


Songs  in  the  Rain 


"  So  long  as  life  lasts,"  he  said  quietly,  "  the  heart 
longs  for  roses.  No  other  flower  will  do ;  an',  oh ! 
but  they  smell  sweet  after  the  rain  \" 

A  blackbird  fluttered  across  the  torrent  of  yellow 
water  on  the  road,  and  perched  himself  on  a  branch 
of  sweetbriar ;  Conal  smiled  at  him  as  he  sat  there 
swinging  lightly,  whistling  a  few  tentative  bars. 

"  Hark  to  that  now ! "  he  cried,  his  eyes  dreamy 
again  ;  "  what  is  that  singing  but  remembrance  ? " 

The  blackbird  had  indeed  begun  on  a  reminiscent 
note.  Now  he  burst  into  a  wandering  song,  burdened 
with  an  exquisite  melancholy — an  ineffable  regret, 
deep,  full,  and  thrillingly  sweet. 

Out  through  the  open  door  I  saw  the  rain-swept 
reeds  prostrate  on  the  sodden  grass,  the  meadow- 
sweet scattering  her  dusty  fragrance  with  the  prodi- 
gality of  wretchedness,  the  drenched  sweetbriar  paling 
under  the  downpour — everywhere  the  washed-out, 
weary  monotone  of  Nature's  most  unhappy  mood. 

Suddenly  a  long  beam  of  purest  silver  shot  across 
the  leaden  waters  of  the  lough.  The  rain  drew  off, 
and  the  clouds  hurried  pell-mell  across  the  horizon, 
driven  before  a  soft  little  wind  below  and  some  great 
storm  wind  far  above.  The  curtain  of  grey  vapour 
which  hid  the  setting  sun  was  riven  apart  and  thrown 
tattered  in  fleecy  shreds  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
heavens.  The  sun  beamed  out  supremely  crimson 

143 


The  Measure  of  Life 


and  splendid,  and  all  the  earth  sent  up  to  him  a 
pearly  blue  incense,  faint,  thin,  and  clear. 

The  blackbird  paused  for  an  instant  in  its  song, 
and  dashed  headlong  into  a  wild,  joyful  rhapsody — 
an  ecstasy  of  welcome. 

Conal  shook  his  head  in  gentle  disparagement. 

"  See  now,"  he  said  regretfully,  "  didn't  I  tell  you 
that  the  sweetest  songs  are  those  sung  in  the  rain  ? " 


144 


THE   MUSIC   OF  THE  WILD 


is  always  singing;  her  songs  are  in 
many  tones,  in  various  languages,  in  voices 
high  or  low,  soft,  small,  and  very  sweet,  or  vibrate 
deep  and  sonorous.  All  things  have  voice,  ex- 
pression — 

"  List  to  the  voices  :  everything  has  voice, 
Winds,  waves,  and  flames,  trees,  reeds,  and  rocks  rejoice." 

They  rejoice  and  have  sorrow,  repentance  and  regret. 
Who  has  not  seen  it  in  things  inanimate  and 
stationary  ?  The  joy,  the  sorrow,  the  happiness  or 
regret  ?  In  vast  waste  places  Nature  sings  mysterious 
melodies,  incomprehensible  to  the  mind  of  man. 
And  not  alone  when  the  great  gales  sweep,  driving 
the  untrodden  solitude  into  clouds  of  fine  white  sand 
over  the  Australian  desert,  or  wheeling  the  ghostly 
grey  gypsophillia  spheres  on  endless  flights  across 
the  Siberian  steppe.  She  sings  in  the  dread  loneli- 
ness of  the  waste  places  where  no  life  is,  where  the 
soul  of  man  stands  abashed  at  its  own  insignificance, 
realizing  at  last  with  a  bitterness  of  certainty  that  the 

MS  L 


The  Measure  of  Life 


stars  will  not  fight  for  or  against  him,  and  that  what 
he  is  he  makes  himself. 

I  have  heard  the  music  of  the  untrodden  sands — 
a  wild,  deep,  sonorous  note,  high  in  the  blinding  sun, 
in  ineffable  heat  and  great  dole.  Now  that  music 
was  above  and  now,  as  it  were,  beneath  the  feet, 
infinitely  melancholy,  arrestive,  and  weird.  A  note 
that  permeated  the  air  rather  than  rose  on  it,  or  fell, 
leaving  no  trace  of  whence  it  came  or  whither  it 
departed. 

Nor  was  it  quite  melody,  that  cry  of  the  barren 
waste,  in  all  its  boundless  miles  of  rippling  sand,  its 
she-oak  ridges  and  low-grown  ti-tree ;  it  was  more 
the  echo  of  the  vanished  waters  of  the  wide  sea  that 
had  once  ebbed  and  flowed  there  beneath  sun  and 
moon  and  low  Australian  stars.  Echoes  of  great 
flood-waves,  of  wild  rushing  tides  swollen  by  the 
monsoon  along  the  illimitable  shores,  rising  and 
falling  evermore  in  that  lonely  wilderness  where  none 
heard,  save  such  wanderers  as  I.  The  monotonous, 
melancholy,  never-ending  song  of  the  Waste. 

On  the  high  and  barren  mountains,  towering  to 
the  drift  of  cloud  and  mist :  to  the  grey,  the  blue, 
the  glowing  nights  of  heaven.  There  is  a  song,  a 
music  in  the  rare  cold  airs  up  there  which  wind  about 
granite  crag  and  inhospitable  rock,  sublimely  remote 
and  fine.  It  commands  the  ear ;  but  who  can  bear  to 

146 


The  Music  of  the  Wild 


listen   to  its   fearful   note,   its   awful   grandeur   and 
menace  ? 

Dearer  to  my  heart  is  the  sweet  music  of  the  low 
green  hills  that  overlook  the  whispering  sea.  There 
may  one  hear  the  voices  of  the  Good  People,  the 
sound  of  the  fairy  pipes,  and  little  songs  in  gay  and 
gentle  cadence. 

All  the  sounds,  all  the  songs  that  childhood 
treasures  and  remembers,  so  that  they  enter  in  and 
become  part  of  one — dreams  and  tales,  glamour  and 
beauty  and  romance.  The  glow  and  sweetness,  the 
joy  of  life.  It  is  not  quite  the  wind,  that  dainty 
delicate  fairy-music,  but  in  the  wind,  on  the  wind ; 
though  it  is  best  and  oftenest  heard  when  all  the 
winds  are  still  and  the  gloaming  broods  mistily  over 
the  mossy  rocks,  and  hides  bluebell  and  heather, 
bracken  and  heath  in  one  universal  amethystine  half- 
light,  or  in  a  blue  silence.  Then,  when  the  hills  are 
pensive  and  dreaming,  wrapped  about  in  their  drift- 
ing veil,  the  Good  People  come  out  and  sing  around 
fort  and  dun,  or  round  the  fairy  thorn.  The  thorns 
on  the  steep  ascending  hill  sing  their  songs  and  tell 
their  tales  to  listening  fearful  mortals,  touching  eye 
and  heart  and  brain  with  impalpable,  illusive  fingers, 
so  that  they  will  understand  only  the  loveliness,  the 
glamour  and  beauty  of  life,  and  never  its  sordid 
shame  or  ugliness. 

147 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Not  many  mortals  will  be  hearing  the  fairies  now, 
and  few  there  be  that  care  to  sit  on  the  hills  and 
listen  for  the  music  of  the  gloaming.  Yet  to  those 
who  do  is  happiness  beyond  all  telling,  and  misery 
sometimes  deeper  than  the  green  of  ocean  ;  but  great 
mysteries  always. 

The  garden  has  a  voice,  a  music  of  its  own ;  an 
ordered  harmony  pervades  its  restricted  spaces,  and 
that  music  is  best  heard  in  the  dusk  also.  There  is 
a  voice  in  the  wood  that  never  ceases,  an  interminable 
medley  of  sweet  sounds.  The  voice  of  the  wild  rose 
is  wonderful ;  the  watermint,  the  apple  tree,  the 
meadow-sweet  along  the  little  singing  brook,  all 
make  sound,  not  always  audible  to  the  ear  unless  in 
harmony,  infinitesimally  small  and  always  strange. 
The  trees  talk  continuously  : 

"  The  oak  chides,  and  the  beech  is  whispering, 
And  the  birch  murmurs  ;  there  are  voices  low, 
Lost  in  the  willow's  shiver,  slight,  half  heard ; 
While  the  lone  pine  tree  moans  some  mystic  word." 

Some  of  us  hear  all  Nature's  music,  standing  with 
rod  and  line  in  some  rocky  pool  in  the  river-bed. 
There  will  be  those  whose  ear  becomes  attuned  at 
the  inevitable  moment.  Others  listen  on  moor  or 
bogland,  and  wonder  at  the  song  that  comes  along 
the  way,  above  the  complaint  of  the  plover  or  the 
drumming  of  the  snipe. 

148 


The  Music  of  the  Wild 


It  is  all  beautiful — crooning  sweet  as  the  dreamy 
child  or  soaring  to  the  heavens  through  the  whole 
gamut  of  passion  ;  yearning,  sorrowful,  complaining  ; 
joyful,  happy,  or  gay.  There  is  a  song  of  terror  and 
affright  among  the  forest-folk  that  goes  out  to  meet  the 
roaring  of  the  sea.  The  trees  bend  and  groan,  fling 
out  their  branches  to  the  sky  in  wild  entreaty  or  pain. 
There  are  discords  in  the  scurrying  gales  and  harsh 
dissonances — the  sound  of  fear,  for  the  forest-folk  are 
gentle  and  kind,  full  of  little  happy  harmonies,  sweet 
vague  whisperings,  dreamy  tender  remembrances. 

But  above  all  and  through  all  the  music  of  earth 
and  air  sounds  for  ever  the  deep  mourning  of  the 
unquiet  sea — the  sound  of  the  ebb-tide  on  the 
shingle ;  the  flowing  tide,  eager,  irresistible,  and 
triumphant,  yet  mourning  still ;  and  the  voice  of 
tempests  that  sweep  over  it  in  vain — cyclone,  hurri- 
cane, tornado ;  the  monsoon  breaking  in  moonless 
blackness  and  torrential  rains,  and  the  song  of  that 
running  wave,  fire-tipped  and  mystical,  that  leaps 
along  the  level  tropic  calms. 

The  voice  that  sings  in  the  running  brook,  the 
wide  slow  river,  the  mighty  torrent  driving  to  the 
father  of  all  streams  to  sink  in  his  bosom  and  forget. 
To  be  at  rest  and  fret  or  fume  or  race  no  more — to 
be  submerged  in  the  greater  harmony,  the  higher, 
deeper  note. 

149 


The  Measure  of  Life 


When  the  four  great  winds  are  loose  on  the 
world,  then  there  is  mighty  singing  over  the  earth, 
and  all  the  heavens  are  full  of  sound.  Strangest  ana 
most  powerful  of  them  all  is  the  great  wind  that 
blows  out  of  a  black-blue  sky,  studded  with  white 
stars  and  a  little  new  moon.  The  white  North  Wind, 
whose  song  no  man  can  comprehend :  his  flaming 
tresses  hang  over  the  edge  of  the  sky  while  he  sings 
to  the  shuddering  world  below.  Vast  is  the  diapason 
of  his  mighty  harp,  his  melody  earth-shaken  and 
thunderous  ;  but  he  leaves  the  minds  of  men  clean 
and  pure,  though  they  cannot  understand  him. 

And  the  East  Wind  blows  into  us  a  song  of 
oppression  and  needless  cruelty,  of  want  and  wrong 
and  misery.  It  comes  across  the  daffodils  and  sings 
of  death.  He  is  death,  riding  invisible  yet  palpable. 

The  West  Wind  sings  of  love,  of  mystery,  and 
delight ;  of  low,  warm  nights  full  of  the  scent  of 
apple-blossom  and  narcissi ;  of  the  budding  rose  in 
the  earth  and  the  rose  in  the  heart.  It  is  the  in- 
explicable that  comes  suddenly  as  we  turn  the  dingy 
corners,  and  meets  us  in  the  city  streets,  full  of  the 
breath  of  flowers,  to  kiss  the  lips  and  cheeks  with  the 
eager  reluctance  of  the  Spring. 

And  the  South  Wind  is  the  wind  of  great  regrets, 
of  tears  and  fallen  hopes  and  dull  despair — the  finality 
of  all  things  brought  home.  While  the  South  Wind 

150 


The  Music  of  the  Wild 


sings  none  will  plan  or  create  or  build  castles,  for 
there  is  no  hope. 

When  the  Preacher  wrote  of  the  silken  thread, 
the  golden  bowl,  when  the  grasshopper  burdened 
him  to  the  earth  and  he  found  the  sum  of  all  was 
sorrow,  the  South  Wind  blew  that  time.  Had  he 
waited  till  the  wind  came  out  of  the  west,  he  would 
have  found  that  love  is  immortal  and  ever  lives  anew. 
And  had  he  gone  out  when  the  roaring  North  Wind 
came  down  on  his  arid  plains,  he  would  have 
thanked  God  for  life  and  that  he  was  a  man. 


PEARLS   AND    GREY  DAYS 

'"T~"VHE  days  are  like  jewels  on  a  thin  gold  chain, 
-••  each  with  a  different  colour,  sparkle,  and 
light,  all  its  own.  They  mark  the  line  of  life,  and  we 
look  back  and  count  them  all.  The  colourless  gems 
of  childhood,  that  were  yet  so  rare  because  of  their 
exceeding  purity.  The  precious  stones  of  early 
youth,  and  the  more  polished  jewels  of  maturity. 
Diamonds  cut  into  innumerable  facets  by  keen 
egoism,  chrysolite  that  was  first  love  and  borrowed 
the  light  of  the  sun.  Turquoise  that  was  the  solidifi- 
cation of  ineffable  happiness,  and  ruby  formed  from 
the  heart's  blood.  Each  the  expression  of  sheer 
triumphant  life,  each  the  embodiment  of  a  day  lived 
to  its  uttermost ;  till  we  come  to  the  pearl,  and  with 
it  the  Grey  Day.  Look  you ;  on  the  chain  of  life,  it 
follows  the  blood-red  gem  which  glows  with  the  fire 
of  a  tropic  dawn.  Do  you  remember  how  that 
precious  thing  was  made  ?  With  what  agony  we 
passed  through  our  Passion  towards  the  crucifixion 
of  Self,  and  woke  on  the  morrow  to  the  stillness  of 
the  Grey  Day,  and  the  rounding  of  the  Pearl. 

152 


Pearls  and  Grey  Days 


After  the  agony  there  is  surcease  from  sorrow — 
no  more  poignant  pangs,  no  longing,  no  hopes,  no 
fears.  After  the  pain  the  silvery  silence  of  the  low, 
grey  sky,  the  drifting  silvery  cloud,  the  tall,  bare 
outline  of  the  trees  against  the  shifting  shadow- 
lights  ;  for  it  is  in  winter  that  the  Grey  Day  comes, 
the  leaf  is  fallen  and  the  bough  bare,  and  there  is 
reason  for  this,  as  the  Soul  will  see.  There  are  no 
bird-songs  on  hill  or  in  wood  or  fell,  the  mists  hover 
across  the  silent  hills,  dimly  vast,  smooth  as  the 
bosom  of  Hertha  asleep  under  the  autumn  leaves. 
The  winds  are  low ;  they  do  not  reach  the  tree-tops 
to  move  the  feathery  interlacing  of  twig  and  spray. 
The  Soul  is  snatched  across  the  border-line  between 
Time  and  Eternity,  and  sits  in  that  vast  silence  to 
which  her  suffering  has  opened  the  portal.  And 
there  she  is,  alone,  and  hearkens  to  the  voice  of 
Wisdom.  There  is  no  interpretation  of  what  the 
voice  says.  Only  the  Soul  understands.  She  may 
not  put  it  into  speech,  and  the  mortal  part  lets  her 
craving  fall  away  like  a  garment,  and  is  re-born. 

Then  in  this  interspace  comes  Misery,  and  touches 
eyes  and  ears,  and  bids  her  look  out  and  see ;  and, 
lo !  the  hidden  things  are  plain  to  view.  The  tones 
that  were  too  high  and  too  low ;  the  infinitesimal 
things  that  are  given  to  the  ministry  of  beauty,  and 
serve  the  seeing  eye — the  songs  that  the  earth-bound 

153 


The  Measure  of  Life 


cannot  hear.  The  height  of  the  stars  is  not  too  high 
nor  the  abyss  too  deep  but  what  sympathy  can  reach 
to  them ;  and  only  suffering  can  bestow  that  mar- 
vellous intuition  which  makes  the  world  merely  a 
place  of  call.  On  the  Grey  Day  the  suddenly 
opened  eyes  sees  the  earth  green  as  emerald. 
She  had  never  noted  the  beauty  or  the  charm,  but 
for  the  greyness  overhead  and  around.  Each  faded 
bracken  is  gemmed  with  a  thousand  stars ;  the  patch 
of  moss  on  that  boulder  by  the  wayside  is  spread  by 
the  Fairies  with  softest  brown  velvet,  for  the  display 
of  those  vermilion  goblets,  filled  to  the  brim  with 
nectar.  There  is  a  beauty  now  in  the  eye  of  age,  in 
the  wasted  cheek,  in  the  steadfast  brow.  The  eye  is 
open,  and  can  see  a  thousand  tints  and  forms  hidden 
before  because  of  the  blindness  of  egoism  and  selfish- 
ness. A  thousand  impressions,  strange  and  lovely, 
steal  in  on  the  newly  awakened  sense — the  sixth 
sense,  which  is  only  to  be  bought  with  the  sacrifice 
of  Self,  and  is  like  fixed  quicksilver  in  an  amber  ring. 
A  potent  thing,  from  which  nothing  can  ever  be  hid. 
Thus  the  pearl  among  the  days  is  finished  and 
moulded.  The  Soul  looks  at  it  as  she  sits  aloof  in 
the  grey  isolation  which  surrounds  her,  and  lets  it 
slip  on  the  golden  chain  without  thought  of  the 
canker-worm  hidden  at  its  core.  All  the  heart- 
agonies,  the  sorrow,  the  desolation  that  went  to  fold 

154 


Pearls  and  Grey  Days 


and  conceal  the  misery  that  lies  enwrapped  in  those 
iridescent  depths,  are  forgotten  in  the  utter  loveliness 
of  the  perfect  gem.  Nor  can  the  Soul  ever  again 
sink  to  that  plane  on  which  sorrow  met  her.  She 
lives  on  a  higher  level  now,  where  the  old  joys  look 
sordid  and  mean,  and  the  new  ones  are  the  joys  of 
others  and  not  her  own.  She  wears  her  chain  of 
jewels  at  the  banquet  of  the  wretched  and  finds 
happiness  in  comforting  their  woes.  There,  too,  she 
finds  a  life  undreamt  of — tastes  of  the  goblet  of  Life, 
and  finds  it  exceeding  bitter,  and  past  all  reckoning 
sweet,  because  of  the  bitterness.  She  is  thankful  now 
for  the  fennel  which  floats  to  her  lips  on  the  brimming 
wine,  and  looks  back  without  repining  to  that  day 
when  she  first  raised  it  to  her  kiss,  thinking  it  would, 
like  Hippocrene,  taste  of  laughter  and  the  sun,  only 
to  find  it  nauseous,  maddeningly  heady,  and  dark 
with  those  waters  that  start  from  the  hidden 
fountains  in  the  heart.  Now  the  goblet  is  crowned 
with  bitter  leaves.  That  is  what  the  Grey  Day 
leaves  to  us  all :  a  fennel  wreath !  She  sits  at  its  close 
with  the  perfect  pearl  dropped  on  the  long  chain,  and 
the  victor's  wreath  about  her  brows,  her  eyes  alight 
with  strength  and  calm  peace.  The  tumult  and  the 
struggle  are  over,  she  has  fought  her  own  battle,  now 
she  lends  her  strength  and  knowledge  to  others. 
She  hears  the  call  of  the  afflicted,  the  low  cry  of 

155 


The  Measure  of  Life 


unconsoled  sorrow,  the  echo  of  an  anguish  that  was 
once  her  own,  and  out  of  her  peace  she  gives  comfort, 
the  quiet  and  waiting  of  the  Grey  Day.  When  others 
sink  in  the  mire  of  their  doubt  and  misery,  this  Soul 
speaks  with  resolution  and  holds  up  the  jewel-chain 
of  life,  so  that  the  pearl  may  shine,  a  white  light  in 
the  shadowy  way,  towards  which  the  most  hopeless 
may  struggle,  for  its  meaning  is  clear  to  all.  Thus 
the  pearl  is  a  treasure  whose  every  layer  is  a  ransom 
for  some  other  soul,  whose  value  would  never  have 
been  realized  had  it  not  been  for  the  fiery  ordeal  of 
terrible  suffering,  and  the  strength  which  comes  of 
victory.  These  three  may  come  to  us  all — the 
Ordeal,  the  Grey  Day  which  follows  it,  and  the  pearl 
of  great  price  made  from  the  heart-pangs  and  the 
tears  of  sorrow.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  the  only  jewel  of 
all  the  long  chain  of  days  that  we  may  take  in  our 
hands  and  carry  with  us  to  the  White  Throne. 


I56 


GRAN-FINN 

/^RAN-FINN  had  called  me  for  a  long  time — in 
^^  the  morning  and  at  noon,  by  dusk  and  at  the 
time  of  the  grey  dawning.  Sitting  in  the  sunlight 
on  the  fine  white  sands  below  the  golf-links,  I  had 
hearkened  to  it  through  the  slumberous  quiet  of  the 
afternoon  ;  but  I  hardly  wished  to  go — the  happiness, 
the  deep,  soul-satisfying  calm  of  the  rise  and  fall,  the 
lights  and  shadows,  the  silver  and  indigo  and  emerald 
of  the  sea  were  enough  for  me.  I  asked  no  more 
than  the  abiding  comfort  of  their  presence — there  is 
no  comfort  like  the  voice  of  the  ocean.  So  I  looked 
down  again  on  the  pearly  shimmer  from  the  drifts  of 
tiny  infinitesimal  sea-shells,  irradiant  as  jewels  on 
the  shifting  ripples  of  the  sand,  and  was  satisfied. 

At  Kilmore  the  great  swelling  downs  have  rushed 
precipitously  to  the  shore  and  paused  on  the  steep 
descent,  overhanging  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  change- 
less, ever-varying  tides,  from  noon  to  noon,  as 
if  arrested  there  by  some  spell.  Covered  with  the 
short  crisp  greenness  of  the  upland  grasses,  a  green- 
ness greener  than  the  wave,  full  of  all  manner  of 

157 


The  Measure  of  Life 


wondrous  growing  things  erect  in  beauty,  sweet  and 
fragrant.  The  softly  rounded  outlines  along  the  cliffs 
are  faintly  lilac  with  wild  thyme,  golden  with  the 
barren  strawberry  and  the  tiny  yellow  heart's-ease 
with  its  purple  eye,  stained  to  crimson  with  heaths 
and  heather,  and  the  vague  purple  of  the  ling — all 
the  sweet,  wild,  small,  and  nameless  things  that  look 
up  to  the  eye  with  the  vague  and  undefined  joyous- 
ness  of  childhood.  Each  jutting  outcrop  of  the  warm 
grey  sandstone  is  stained  vermilion  with  the  out- 
thrown  trains  of  the  shepherd's  weather-glass  ;  the 
little  wild  strawberry  leaves  are  vividly  scarlet ;  tiny 
ferns,  delicate  and  fragile,  with  grey  down  silvery  and 
soft  on  each  hidden  frond  ;  sea-pinks  and  mosses, 
brown,  emerald,  and  white,  with  upstanding  cups  of 
purest  red,  holding  one  solitary  drop  of  dew,  for  the 
sun  to  drink. 

That  is  high  above  on  the  cliffs.  Down  here,  by 
the  golf-links,  under  the  shadow  of  Gran-Finn,  the 
whiteness  of  the  sand  is  bound  together  by  sighing 
bent-grass  and  tall  brown-flowered  reeds.  And  lower, 
on  the  level  shore,  where  the  long  roller  breaks  in 
foam,  the  Atlantic  has  spread  out  here  and  there 
little  ripples  of  gleaming  opalescent  shells,  infinite- 
simally  small,  as  if  the  daughters  of  Mannan  had 
been  spreading  their  jewels  in  the  sun  and  forgotten 
them  there. 

158 


Grar>Finn 

The  sand  on  the  white  strand  of  Kilmore  is  so 
fine  that  the  faintest  puff  of  summer  air  lifts  it  like 
vapour  and  drives  it  on.  It  lifts  and  flies  and  falls, 
and  settles  rippling  in  the  sun,  only  to  lift  and  fly  and 
fall  again,  as  if  it  were  an  aerial  ebb  and  flow. 

Sometimes  the  wind  takes  up  the  little  glimmering 
shells,  drifts  them  into  the  blueness  of  the  clear  air  ; 
and  when  that  happens  it  is  as  if  the  tiny,  burnished, 
many-tinted  things  had  been  removed  by  enchant- 
ment from  under  the  eyes  that  they  charmed  by  their 
exquisite  perfectness. 

The  wide  ocean  rises  and  falls  as  if  it  breathed  in 
the  golden  light,  the  long  wave  running  to  the  sand 
breaks  on  it  white  as  snow ;  then,  when  the  wind 
comes  off  Gran-Finn,  warm  and  sweet  with  the 
breath  of  thyme  and  heather,  it  lifts  the  foam-crest 
and  whirls  it  back  on  the  green  of  the  following  wave, 
dissolving  it  into  the  blueness  of  the  day. 

The  shores  are  very  still.  The  larks  do  not  sing 
in  this  late  August  weather,  all  warm  and  golden  as 
it  is  ;  the  blackbird  and  thrush  are  silent — only  the 
seamew  cries  from  Coolmaine,  and  the  curlew  and 
plover  call  from  Arraghidee.  A  grey-blue  heron 
rises  from  among  the  bent  and  wings  a  slow  flight 
towards  the  rocks,  sailing  under  a  great  snowy  cloud 
that  casts  a  deep  purple  shadow  on  the  sea,  darkening 
its  sparkle  to  a  solemn  loveliness.  Very  beautiful  is 

159 


The  Measure  of  Life 


that  great  cloud,  like  an  angel  with  outspread  wings 
edged  with  gold,  and  tinged  in  the  floating  draperies 
with  vaporous  grey. 

There  is  a  shell  on  the  drift  near  to  my  elbow,  no 
bigger  than  a  grain  of  barley.  Fine  and  thin  as  a 
bubble  of  blown  glass,  transparently  light,  glowing 
with  crimson  and  green  and  gold.  Its  contemplation 
fills  me  with  the  same  strange  rapture  I  remember 
long  ago  on  a  moonless  night  in  mid -ocean,  with  a 
mountainous  swell  under  us,  smooth,  unbroken, 
wonderful,  gleaming  with  criss-cross  greenish  lines. 

The  wind  sighs  through  the  bent-grass,  and  takes 
away  the  wonder  in  a  mist  of  drifting  sand  towards 
the  wild  thyme  and  heart's-ease.  Gran-Finn  is  purple 
as  a  pansy  flower,  as  the  sea  over  a  coral  reef,  as  old 
wine  poured  into  cut  crystal. 

I  watch  the  cloud  go  slowly  over  towards  the 
woods  above  Kilmore,  and  Gran-Finn  as  slowly 
shades  to  crimson  and  soft  blue.  I  can  hear  the 
little  river  singing  over  the  stones  and  beneath  the 
three-arched  bridge,  where  once  a  McCarthy  saw 
the  bride  of  his  hot  youth,  whom  he  had  cruelly  put 
to  death,  washing  his  shroud  in  the  moonlight. 
Down  the  narrow  little  valley  road  another  stream 
is  dancing  to  meet  it  through  bracken  and  bramble 
and  brake. 

Nan,  Dermot,  and  Ethne  are  singing  in  the  bent- 
160 


Grari'Finn 

grass ;  the  song  is  like  the  echo  of  wave  and  wind, 
with  wild  flowers  and  quicken-berries  in  it.  It  is 
about  a  rose  tree  in  full  bearing. 

They  call  to  me  as  I  pass.  "  I  am  going  to 
climb  Gran-Finn,"  I  say.  And  we  all  start  together. 

Dermot  sings  all  the  way  up,  and  all  his  songs 
are  in  the  Erse.  There  is  one  that  greatly  pleases 
me,  about  a  tall  girl  whose  lover  tells  her  why  he 
loves.  Not  because  of  the  little  field  of  barley,  or 
the  sleek  cows  that  pasture  in  her  grass,  or  the  little 
pot  of  gold  hidden  under  the  thatch  ;  but  for  her 
blue  eyes  and  her  long  brown  hair,  and  the  lightness 
of  her  foot  on  the  heather.  Ethne  and  Nan  are  a 
long  way  below ;  they  stand  likewise  and  sing  Irish 
songs.  By-and-by  we  reach  the  summit  and  wait 
for  them,  facing  the  way  they  come.  Over  against 
us  on  the  rise  of  the  opposite  hill  is  the  grim 
old  stronghold  of  the  McCarthys,  frowning  grey  and 
imperishably  strong.  A  fine  pledge  that  to  give  for 
a  white  ferret,  with  its  tall  turrets  and  battlements, 
its  hidden  gardens  and  wide  bawn.  How,  I  wonder, 
did  De  Courcy  feel  when  he  saw  the  white  ferret 
dead  in  his  hands,  and  realized  that  Kilmore  would 
belong  to  McCarthy  while  McCarthy  could  defend 
its  gates  ? 

Gran-Finn's  purple  sides  are  smoothly  steep, 
behind  the  old  castle  the  woods  darken  away  in 

161  M 


The  Measure  of  Life 


softly  swelling  rounded  heights  that  melt  into  a 
thousand  tones  of  violet  and  blue  and  silvery  grey. 
The  little  river  sings  and  prattles  up  through  the 
quiet  of  the  still  day,  crystal-white  and  clear.  We 
hear  it  as  if  it  were  but  a  yard  away,  up  on  the  very 
crest  of  Gran-Finn. 

Through  all  the  hollow  murmuring  of  the  illimitable 
sea,  the  surging  roar  of  wild  Atlantic  on  the  rocky 
shores,  comes  the  voice  of  the  tiny  mountain-rills 
hastening  to  its  tides.  And  far  below  it  lies  in 
endless  miles  of  changing  green-blueness — now  cloud- 
darkened,  now  sparkling,  shining,  dancing  in  the  sun. 
On  the  line  between  sea  and  sky,  a  great  ocean  liner 
is  hurrying  outwards,  a  trail  of  black  smoke  behind 
her  as  she  goes.  The  Old  Head  is  like  a  great 
sapphire  thrust  out  to  sea,  crowned  by  its  white- 
banded  lighthouse.  Across  from  that  the  great 
waves  are  breaking  like  snow  on  the  Seven  Heads. 

The  houses  of  Court-Mas-Sherry,  "  Harbour  of 
the  White  Waters,"  look  small  as  the  paper  houses 
in  a  child's  box  of  toys.  The  hotel  on  the  golf-links 
is  one  of  those  tiny  carved  chdlets  one  buys  in 
Switzerland. 

The  bees  are  seeking  in  the  heather  and  honey- 
suckle. Gran-Finn  is  crowned  with  flowers,  and 
garlanded  with  the  purple  and  scarlet  of  the  bramble 
and  woodbine  and  quicken.  The  woods  are  dark 

162 


GrankFinn 

and  still  on  "  Cluan  an  uishga  geel,"  but  it  is  better 
to  be  here.  It  is  like  being  in  the  ear  of  ocean, 
curved  to  the  round  of  some  great  shell,  and  booming 
with  the  voice  of  the  wave,  of  the  wind  and  the  little 
waters  and  the  bees. 

The  low-sailing  clouds  come  near  to  the  head  of 
Gran-Finn,  and  lull  her  to  dreams  in  that  echoing 
music  of  sea  and  wind  and  running  stream.  The  rains 
come  swiftly  over  her.  Mannan,  the  sea-god,  must 
walk  there,  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  own  mighty 
voice.  Now  near  and  loud  and  grand,  now  far  off 
and  remote,  infinitely  sweet  and  sad. 

To  live  here  on  the  thyme  and  heart's-ease  and 
heather,  and  let  sun  and  rain  sweep  over,  might  bring 
one  within  reach  of  the  stars.  But  it  would  be  also, 
like  Gran-Finn,  removed  and  alone.  Mannan  and 
she  will  give  their  lovers  great  rich  gifts,  but  they 
will  allow  no  partition  of  them.  To  live  as  on  a 
mountain ;  to  live  as  on  a  rock  in  the  tossing  waves. 
In  return  there  will  be  peace,  infinite  peace  and 
stillness,  but  also  infinite  solitariness,  alone  and  apart. 
Dermot  sings  on — 

"  0  Baltimore,  thou  wert  once  the  boast 
Of  the  great  O'Driscoll  and  his  host." 

In  the  end  what  will  it  matter  ?  For  the  soul  is 
apart  and  alone,  wherever  we  be. 

163 


THE   MYSTERY   OF   FIRE 

T  REMEMBER  in  my  life  an  oft-recurring  dream, 
-*•  a  haunting  mystical  vision  that  always  threaded 
my  slumbers  from  week  to  week  in  the  harvest-time 
during  my  childhood. 

Since  I  have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion  I  have 
learnt  that  probably  the  dream  was  suggested  by  the 
weed  fires,  or  the  burning  of  the  potato-haulms  in  the 
fields.  I  had  always  loved  to  watch  them,  roasting 
a  potato  now  and  again  in  the  clear  white  and  red 
ashes.  How  well  I  remember  the  warm  enclosing 
dusk,  and  the  fires  towering  upwards  in  the  still  rest- 
ful evening  air,  and  I,  full  of  legends  and  stories  that 
peopled  the  dark  with  all  the  fairy  train,  with  Phooka, 
and  Cluricane,  and  Luricane  Dullahan,  and  Shadow- 
folk  peeping  furtively  over  my  shoulders,  in  a  fearful 
joy  in  anticipating  the  sight  of  them  all. 

But  in  my  dream  I  had  no  thought  of  these — 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  but  myself,  and  I  was 
poised  on  the  edge  of  a  wide  and  boundless  plain, 
brown  and  grey  in  the  nearness,  with  all  the  fading 
tints  of  late  autumn,  and  melting  in  the  distances  to 

164 


The  Mystery  of  Fire 


vague,  indefinable  violets  and  dim  purples,  shadowy 
umbers  and  grey.  There  was  no  tree,  no  shrub,  no 
tall  reed  in  all  the  illimitable  surface  to  break  its 
endless  monotony.  Only  the  grey-brown  grass  with 
its  bleached  plumes,  all  blown  seedless  by  the  roam- 
ing winds.  Those  silvery  plumes  stood  stark  upright 
in  the  stillness,  for  there  was  no  faintest  breath  of  air 
in  my  dream,  and  no  sound.  Above  was  the  evening 
sky  silvery  grey,  with  one  long  rift  of  palest  chryso- 
prase  immediately  over  the  line  of  the  horizon — a 
motionless  and  silent  sky,  brooding  over  a  motionless 
and  silent  plain,  an  imporous  immensity,  lifeless  save 
for  me,  all  colourless  and  perished.  But  in  it  I  was 
rilled  with  a  curious  sense  of  irresponsible  happiness, 
because  I  was  absolutely  free  and  could  go  whither  I 
would,  impelled  swiftly  and  smoothly  in  a  flight 
without  wings,  directed  by  my  mere  wish. 

So  great  was  my  happiness  at  the  possession  of 
this  power  that  I  hardly  cared  to  use  it — delaying 
myself,  as  a  child  will  always  postpone  the  delight  of 
some  coveted  pleasure.  At  length,  illimitably  far  off, 
I  saw  a  faint  glimmer,  an  intermittent  glow,  like  a 
small  star  in  the  dense  shadow  of  the  distance,  and  I 
started  towards  it,  as  if  the  wind  were  behind  me 
circling  in  a  wide,  bird-like  sweep,  ever  nearer  and 
nearer  the  light,  but  low  and  close  to  the  earth.  It 
might  have  been  that  the  wind  was  myself,  or  I  was 

I65 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  wind,  yet  the  white  ghostly  heads  of  dandelion 
down  or  the  silvery  plumes  of  seeded  grass  were 
never  stirred  by  my  passing. 

On  without  sound  or  apparent  movement  of  the 
dusky  shadows  till  I  came  to  the  fire,  burning  noise- 
less, tall  and  straight  in  the  still  air. 

By  the  fire  sat  a  shrouded  figure,  slender  and 
stooped,  as  if  the  invisible  arms  were  laid  on  the 
hidden  knees  and  the  head  bent  over  them,  the  eyes 
gazing  at  the  flames. 

I  had  never  any  fear  of  this  cloaked  and  hidden 
woman,  only  a  kind  of  careless  joy.  I  waited  stand- 
ing for  a  while,  but  no  word  or  look  rewarded  my 
patience.  So  I  sat  down  facing  her  across  the  fire. 

I  always  imagined  her  in  the  dream,  while  I  sat 
there,  waiting  for  her  to  speak.  So  long  as  the  great 
hood  concealed  the  face  I  could  see  her — a  woman 
no  longer  young,  thin-lipped,  and  very  pale,  with 
white,  exquisitely  modelled  cheeks,  pure  cold  chin, 
and  grave,  sweet  eyes  cast  down  under  dark  lashes 
towards  the  red  ash  at  her  hidden  feet.  In  my 
dream  I  loved  that  face,  and  knew  it  well — so  well 
that  the  silence  and  stillness  of  her  did  not  disconcert 
me,  but  rather  added  to  my  joy.  Postponed  the 
pleasure,  as  it  were,  till  it  became  too  keen  for  further 
delay,  and  I,  speeding  round,  lifted  the  hood  and 
looked  for  welcome — and  lo !  there  was  nothing — 

1 66 


The  Mystery  of  Fire 


emptiness,  vacancy,  the  semblance  of  form,  brooding 
over  the  source  of  all  life. 

It  is  long  since  that  dream  visited  me,  but  I  recall 
the  wild  thrill,  half  absolute  fear  and  half  delight,  with 
which  I  realized  that,  much  as  I  loved  the  woman  I 
had  expected  to  see,  I  was  happiest  alone,  untram- 
melled and  free. 

It  was  only  last  night  I  had  it  all  brought  back 
to  me,  with  that  extraordinary  force  and  directness 
that  colour  and  perfume  possess,  wherewith  to  work 
miracles  in  the  mind.  I  was  walking  along  the  canal 
bank  in  the  gloaming  on  my  homeward  way.  Before 
me  the  dim  mauve  and  browns  of  the  darkening  had 
drifted  silently  across  the  lights  of  the  town,  obscur- 
ing all  that  lay  beyond  the  crowded  locks. 

Amid  the  huddled  furrows  a  man  stood  pressing 
the  long,  straggling  wreaths  of  withered  potato- 
haulms  and  dead  weeds  on  a  leaping  fire.  He  was 
himself  in  the  shadow.  No  more  than  the  big  outline 
loomed  up  from  the  earth — just  a  little  more  definite 
than  the  dusky  shadows  around  him.  Beside  me  on 
the  quickset  hedge  a  robin  piped  his  melancholy, 
retrospective  roundelay,  a  song  of  regrets  for  departed 
summer,  for  the  sunshine  gone.  I  had  seen  that 
place  in  all  its  aspects — in  winter  snows  and  sleet,  in 
the  wild  spring  gales  and  driving  showers,  in  the 
green  of  summer  and  the  glory  of  the  early  autumn. 

167 


The  Measure  of  Life 


And  now  all  at  once  it  took  on  the  look  of  my  dream 
— a  wild,  strange,  mystical  country  lighted  by  that 
wizard  fire  alone. 

Yes,  it  was  just  the  fire — fire  makes  many  illusions, 
mystery  as  it  is — coming  like  life  from  some  great 
source  unknown,  itself  the  cause  of  life ;  it  alone  of 
all  the  elements  reduces  all  things  to  absolute  purity. 
It,  more  than  any  other  cause,  conjures  up  the  dreams 
of  mankind. 

What  is  the  charm  of  the  glowing  fire  ?  It  is  not 
the  half-realized  sensation  of  awe  and  worship  so 
much  as  a  kind  of  mental  well-being — a  sense  of 
security  that  comes  with  its  warmth  ;  it,  the  sunshine 
of  illimitable  ages  past,  illuminating  the  upward  path 
of  man. 

"  It  is  only  a  fire  of  coals,"  cries  the  Materialist ; 
"  any  one  who  possesses  the  wherewithal  can  buy  it 
off  the  coal-merchant" 

Yet  there  is  in  the  fire  of  coals,  humdrum  and 
prosaic  as  it  seems,  a  something  you  never  dream  of 
purchasing  with  money — the  certainty  of  a  future. 
Hereafter. 

In  the  infancy  of  the  earth  the  fervid  sun  drew 
up  from  its  bosom  towering  palms,  mighty  ferns, 
gigantic  mosses  ;  the  dank,  warm  winds  blew  over 
them,  strange  and  monstrous  things  haunted  them, 
the  silence  was  peopled  with  awful  cries,  as  the  globe 

168 


The  Mystery  of  Fire 


spun  round  in  space,  wreathed  with  vapours  that  hid 
the  surface  where  Man  was  not  yet.  There  were 
strange  flowers  in  those  awful  solitudes — birds  that 
were  beasts,  and  beasts  that  were  reptiles.  It  was 
as  yet  Chaos. 

Age  after  age  the  forest  stood,  rising  on  its  own 
fallen  growths,  while  Creation  ascended  in  the  scale 
of  being.  Then  the  sea  swept  over  it,  and  its  tall 
boughs  bent  to  the  wave  and  storm.  Once  again, 
and  it  lay  under  the  sun,  but  low  and  in  great  wind- 
swept places  where  the  foot  of  the  wandering  beast 
but  seldom  crossed  the  covered  tree-tops.  Thousands 
of  years  again,  and  it  glows  on  the  hearthstone  and 
gives  us  dreams. 

So  as  we  wonder  at  what  has  been,  might  we  not 
hope  also  for  the  things  that  are  to  be  ?  For,  look 
you,  that  black  mass  we  cast  upon  our  fire  is  part  and 
portion  of  a  world  gone  by,  whose  elements  have  all 
gone  to  the  formation  of  this  in  which  we  live  and 
move  and  have  our  being.  It  is  a  more  complex 
world,  a  world  full  of  more  highly  organized  forms 
and  creatures.  There  is  nothing  on  the  earth  we 
know  that  resembles  that  earth  on  which  the  coal 
forest  grew.  The  primeval  sun  shone  upon  a  world 
of  imperfect  shapes,  things  vaguely  striving  towards 
beauty  of  outline  and  colour.  The  mountains  have 
risen  and  fallen  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  since  that 

169 


The  Measure  of  Life 


striving  began,  and  with  every  wave  Creation  has 
risen  to  higher  things. 

Creation  rises  still,  and  through  it  all]  the  succes- 
sion of  vitality,  the  animating  fire,  the  spark  of  life, 
has  remained  secure.  It  is  passing  on  continuously, 
though  with  each  change  the  conditions  of  existence 
have  become  harder,  will  become  more  difficult  still. 

And  Jwith  all  this  power  of  vitality  there  is  no 
decay  in  its  physical  accompaniment.  The  horse  is 
no  less  strong  in  his  present  beautiful  and  noble  pro- 
portions than  he  was  as  the  grotesquely  revolting 
creature  that  was  his  forebear. 

Nor  is  man  less  physically  strong  now  than  he 
was  when  he  dwelt  on  a  narrow  platform  amid  the 
tree-tops,  or  grovelled  in  caves,  or  shut  himself  away 
from  his  foes  in  crannogs  off  the  lake  shores.  Doubt- 
less, too,  all  these  thought  in  their  day  that  with  them 
progress  had  ^culminated  and  reached  a  point  so  high 
that  it  could  no  farther. 

And  so,  looking  back  by  the  light  of  our  coal-fire, 
look  forward  too,  and  see  that  the  Scheme  of  Things 
cannot  retrograde.  Creation  must  onwards,  upwards, 
to  finer,  more  complex,  more  gifted  beings  than  we 
are,  even  at  this  day,  when  we  wonder  if  science  and 
art  and  evolution  can  make  another  step,  so  far  have 
we  come  to  the  finding  out  of  all  secrets. 

Man  is  withal  as  yet  an  imperfect  being ;  he  is 
170 


The  Mystery  of  Fire 


handicapped  by  his  imperfections  in  many  things  he 
ought  to  do.  But  he  is  meant  to  be  perfect ;  so  one 
might  think  that  this  system  on  which  he  is  formed 
is  not  yet  completed.  The  scheme  is  not  yet  fully 
carried  out ;  it  will  arrive  at  its  culmination  later  on, 
when  many  more  steps  in  the  ascent  are  left  behind. 
What  the  new  man  will  be  would  be  an  impossible 
thing  to  foretell ;  but  he  will,  necessarily,  be  beautiful, 
gifted  with  mighty  understanding  and  great  love,  for 
in  that  future  surely  man  will  be  as  the  gods,  knowing 
good  from  evil.  He  will  see  that  evil  cannot  bring 
forth  good,  and  will  secure  its  extinction.  He  will 
know  that  the  end  of  all  life  is  happiness,  and  see  to 
it  that  each  has  that  share  to  which  all  are  born, 
because  chiefest  among  his  manifold  gifts  will  be 
justice.  It  is  concealed  in  the  time  to  come,  lying 
hidden  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  Latet  in  majestate 
natura^  but  it  will  surely  come  to  pass,  and  it  will, 
like  the  mystery  of  the  fire,  be  seen  to  have  been  with 
us  always  since  the  beginning. 


171 


THE   MUSIC   OF  THE   MOON 


"  HT^HE  music  of  the  moon  sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs 
•*•  of  the  nightingale."  Who  has  not  listened  to 
the  nightingale  singing  to  the  moon  ?  Remember  the 
song  with  all  its  accessories  —  the  low,  blue,  English 
sky,  flecked  with  drifting  cloud  ;  the  white  horizon 
where  the  false  dawn  trembles  from  sunset  till 
sunrise  ;  the  throbbing  stars  ;  the  suspiration  of 
the  young  leaves.  All  the  thousand  wet,  sweet 
fragrances  of  spring,  and  that  wild,  passionate  out- 
pouring of  soul-melody,  entreaty,  rejoicing,  despair, 
revolt,  and  longing  unutterable,  flung  upward  and 
setting  the  silence  of  the  chill  night  aflame.  Who 
has  not  felt  there  was  in  that  song  the  voicing  of 
thought  for  which  you  yourself  could  find  no  fitting 
expression  ?  That  the  unseen  singer  in  the  dark- 
ness was  putting  the  thoughts,  never  understood, 
vague,  featureless,  and  beautiful,  which  lay  near  to 
the  door  of  your  lips,  and  yet  could  find  no  exit  ? 
And  why?  Because  in  all  of  us  sleeps  the  music 
of  the  moon.  The  heart  of  a  woman  is  a  mysteri- 
ously hidden  harp,  which  waits  in  darkness  till 

172 


The  Music  of  the  Moon 


Love  draws  forth  its  divine  harmony ;  a  great  voice 
capable  of  all  tones,  all  depths  and  heights,  but 
lacking  speech,  till  Love  bestows  it,  and  there  can 
be  song. 

And  herein  lies  at  once  the  tragedy  and  the 
comedy  of  the  woman's  life.  She  must  wait,  and 
Love  does  not  always  come  radiant  like  the  morn,  to 
stir  her  with  a  kiss.  He  comes  shrouded  in  suffering, 
in  humiliation,  in  deep  sorrow,  and  bitter  loss.  And 
the  gift  of  song  seems  dearly  bought  with  these. 
Yet  they  are  the  price,  and  we  must  pay  it  If  yoa 
look  at  those  whose  lives  are  unclouded  by  suffering, 
who  live  in  the  snnshine,  in  laughter  and  joy,  look 
also  at  what  influence  they  bring  to  bear  on  the  lives 
around  them.  You  will  find  it  is  almost  niL  They 
have  no  power,  because  they  have  had  no  sufferings. 
They  are  like  Shan  in  the  old  Irish  tale.  Shan  set 
out  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  came,  at  nightfall,  to  a 
cabin  in  a  lonely  wood.  There  he  was  made 
welcome,  and  offered  food,  a  warm  turf  fire,  and  a 
bed  ;  but  in  exchange  he  must  tell  a  story.  Like 
the  needy  knife-grinder,  he  had  none  to  telL  So 
perforce  he  must  needs  go  out  into  the  night  again, 
and  find  one.  After  "rffrriffg  many  things  he  re- 
turned with  a  story,  terrible  and  thrilling,  of  his 
experiences,  and  earned  by  a  night  of  terror  the  right 
to  sleep  warm  and  quiet  and  safe.  So  with  ns  all ; 

173 


The  Measure  of  Life 


we  must  buy  our  knowledge  with  many  pangs,  and 
always  it  is  another  who  fixes  the  price.  Perhaps  it 
is  best  so,  for  precious  things  cannot  be  picked  up 
haphazard.  Nor  can  we  always  pay  the  sum  at 
once  ;  very  few  do  that ;  most  of  us  spread  the  price 
over  long  years,  and  lay  it  down  in  pennies  and  half- 
pennies and  farthings.  That  is  the  most  cruel  pro- 
bation of  all,  to  buy  the  song  with  tiny  infinitesimal 
bitternesses  and  self-sacrifices — to  lay  down  one's  self 
in  segments.  Yet  I  think  the  music  of  the  moon  is 
never  so  sweet,  so  stirring,  as  when  it  is  purchased 
like  that. 

"  I  do  not  mind  the  suffering,"  a  girl  once  said  to 
me,  "  it  is  the  loneliness.  No  one  ever  gets  really 
near  me."  Now  the  girl  who  said  that  was  not,  as 
you  might  think,  living  by  herself,  and  isolated  from 
friends  and  companions.  She  was  rich,  highly 
placed,  and  interesting;  but  she  carried  about  with 
her  the  saddest  of  all  tragedies,  the  futile  longing  for 
the  thing  that  was  not.  And  I  often  think,  if  it  was 
so  with  her — surrounded  by  all  that  wealth  can  give 
in  compensation — what  must  it  be  for  those  who 
labour  for  their  daily  bread,  who  are  isolated,  un- 
comforted,  and  divide  their  lives  between  the  dull 
monotony  of  the  workroom  and  the  unsympathetic 
atmosphere  of  the  room  in  some  home,  or  boarding- 
house?  These  seem  to  buy  the  song  very  dearly, 

174 


The  Music  of  the  Moon 


yet,  unconscious  as  they  may  be,  it  is  sweetest  of 
all  with  them.  Every  girl  is  born  into  this  world 
a  potential  queen.  Her  kingdom  is  the  home,  her 
throne  is  some  man's  heart.  But  she  must  be  like 
the  beggar-maid  in  the  story,  and  meet  him  on  the 
highway  of  life.  Sometimes  the  King  passes  her 
with  unseeing  eyes,  and  another  sits  in  her  place. 
Sometimes  she  mistakes  another  for  him  ;  and  so 
both  miss  their  happiness,  and  the  kingdom  is  laid 
waste.  But  there  is  no  need  to  despair  if  this  has 
been  the  evil  fate.  There  are  other  kingdoms,  no 
need  to  seek  far,  where  a  smile  will  bring  sunshine, 
and  a  word  water  the  withered  roots  of  hope  ;  where 
a  little  sympathy  will  set  hidden  fountains  aflow,  and 
bring  back  the  flowers.  It  is  so  easy  ;  and  the 
Queen  is  always  gracious.  Remember  that !  Noblesse 
oblige. 

There  was  a  wise  old  Greek  once,  who  loved 
talking  in  parables,  and  he  said,  that  for  us  all,  once 
in  a  life-time,  the  door  of  happiness  stands  wide 
open.  But  we  cannot  all  see  it ;  sometimes  its  sur- 
roundings are  so  mean,  the  prospect  in  which  it  is  set 
so  uninviting,  that  we  pass  by,  incredulous,  perhaps 
reviling.  Then  we  realize,  too  late,  that  we  had 
scorned  the  entrance  to  our  kingdom,  and  hasten  to 
return  ;  only  to  find  it  closed.  We  cannot  always 
recognize  our  own  happiness  ;  that  is  the  sad  lot  of 

175 


The  Measure  of  Life 


women.  Then  we  must  even  buy  the  knowledge  to 
another  gate  ;  with  bitter  longing,  with  tears  and 
vigils  and  many  prayers,  the  music  stirs  and  wakes 
within.  How  often  the  angels  must  hang  suspended 
over  the  abyss  when  the  woman's  soul  sings  from  the 
loneliness  of  her  suffering.  We  are  all  lonely  ;  no 
one  ever  comes  really  near  us  ;  it  is  one  of  the 
perplexing  things  about  us  that  we  cannot  be  con- 
sistently ourselves.  We  are  such  a  maze  of  com- 
plexities that  to  each  and  all  we  turn  just  that  side  of 
us  which  is  brought  for  the  instant  into  being.  We 
have  a  different  personality  for  every  one ;  but, 
beneath  them  all,  the  Soul,  the  Ego,  which  is  the  true 
Self,  is  immutably  and  unchangeably  alone — always 
alone,  and  complaining  in  exquisite  song  of  her  isola- 
tion, as  the  nightingale  sings  to  the  moon. 

That  loneliness  is,  after  all,  the  most  appalling 
feature  of  our  lives,  rich  or  poor,  peeress  or  serving 
maid ;  no  one  ever  gets  really  near  us  save  one, 
and  he  is  often  unconscious,  and  often  regardless  of 
the  fact.  It  is,  indeed,  seldom  the  King  recognizes 
his  Consort  in  the  beggar-maid.  He  looks  afar  with 
dreaming  eyes,  looking  for  her  crowned,  dominant, 
glorious;  and  so  passes  by,  unknowing  that  the 
wistful-eyed  maiden  in  the  shabby  gown  stood 
holding  wide  the  gates  of  Paradise.  And  she  weeps 
tunefully,  and  cries  she  is  alone.  Yet  no  ! 

176 


The  Music  of  the  Moon 


"  No  one  is  so  accursed  by  Fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 
But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 
Responds  unto  his  own. 
Responds,  as  if,  with  unseen  wings, 
An  Angel  touched  its  quivering  strings, 
And  whispers  in  its  song, 
Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ?  " 

You  may  be  apart,  yet  the  heart  that  should  be 
yours  responds  through  the  darkness  and  destinies  to 
your  own  ;  and  beside  you  there  is  always  another 
lonely,  like  yourself — child,  or  man,  or  sister-woman 
— to  whom  you  may  bring  light.  Consider  that  just 
as  your  soul  pays  for  each  lovely  note  of  the  song, 
so  with  kindly  deeds  and  words  and  eyes  you  may 
purchase  for  yourself  royal  jewels  for  that  crown 
which  you  must  wear  when  you  go  forth  at  the  end, 
"  Clothed  like  a  bride,"  to  meet  the  King,  what  time 
the  bitternesses  are  all  past,  and  the  King's  eyes  are 
blind  no  longer.  Where  the  door  of  happiness  is 
unmistakably  set  wide  for  you  to  enter  in  together, 
and  the  song  is  perfect.  For  this  life  is  only  proba- 
tion, just  a  stage  on  the  upward  way  ;  and  the  severer 
the  discipline,  the  harder  the  school,  so  the  more 
beautiful,  the  more  joyful  the  tones  in  the  singing  time 
hereafter. 


177 


THE   TURF-CUTTER 

HT^HERE  was  a  morning  when  I  rose  before  the 
•*•  dawn,  and  went  out  to  gather  mushrooms  in 
the  meadows  beyond  the  bog.  I  had  filled  my 
basket  to  overflowing,  and  was  returning  home, 
when  I  glanced  across  the  moss  and  saw  old  Denny, 
with  the  spade  over  his  shoulder,  setting  forth  to  his 
day's  work.  And  across  the  glory  of  the  scarlet 
sorrel  he  called  forth  greeting. 

I  have  asked  myself  many  times,  at  what 
season  is  the  bog  most  beautiful?  and  never  any 
answer  did  I  get  For  at  all  times,  no  matter 
when  you  see  it,  the  great  moss  is  most  lovely — 
whether  it  be  spring,  or  summer,  or  autumn,  or 
winter — for  its  beauty  changes  with  the  time,  and 
is  always  over-cast  with  glamour,  the  glamour  of 
lonely  places  far  removed  from  the  traffics  and 
turmoil  of  men's  ways.  No  one  comes  there  but, 
perhaps,  a  peasant  man  with  his  web,  travelling  to 
the  little  town ;  or  a  woman  with  her  eggs  and 
butter ;  or,  maybe,  the  old  white-haired  priest  astride 
his  donkey,  reading  in  his  Book  of  Hours  as  he 

178 


The  TurkCutter 


goes  ;  or  the  bent  and  twisted  figure  of  the  owner  of 
the  soil,  setting  on  the  edge  of  the  brown  bog  waters 
waiting  for  the  red-speckled  brown  trout  to  rise. 

These  pass  to  and  fro,  but  Denny  is  in  the  moss 
day  by  day  and  every  day — he  is  the  turf-cutter — 
and  digs  from  sun  to  sun,  the  whole  year  round. 

Still,  when  I  think  of  it,  the  bog  is  wonderful 
in  early  autumn,  glorious  in  its  covering  of  thin,  dia- 
phanous cobwebbery  all  pearled  and  be-diamonded 
and  strung  with  rubies.  All  the  tall  bracken,  the 
heath  and  heather  and  meadow-sweet,  every  branch 
of  whitethorn  and  crooked  ebony  blackthorn,  each 
sprig  of  hazel  and  sloe,  oak,  gorse  and  whin  and 
ivy  are  wreathed  about  and  garlanded  with  cobweb, 
glittering  and  shining  in  the  level  sun-rise.  Great 
whorls  of  geometric  splendour — ropes  and  lines  of 
spun  glass,  and  all  the  dainty  confusion  of  imper- 
ceptibly fine  interlacing  circles  wrought  by  the  tiny 
craftsman  who  weaves  upon  the  grass.  Gleaming 
carmine,  glittering  gold,  silver  and  brass,  white  and 
rose,  red  and  black,  and  all  the  air  is  filled  with 
a  floating  maze  of  burnished  gossamer,  floating  no- 
whither  in  the  infinite  calm  and  stillness  of  the 
morning. 

"Glory  be  to  Goodness,  a  beautiful  marnin','' 
replied  Denny.  "  An'  how's  yourself  at  all  ?  "  Being 
assured  of  my  well-being,  he  descended  into  the 

179 


The  Measure  of  Life 


cutting,  and  flung  his  coat  on  the  bracken  above. 
"Tis  for  all  the  worrld  like  Moy  Mell  itself,"  he 
said,  with  a  look  round  ;  then  he  thrust  in  the  long 
narrow  spade  and  cut  the  first  turf,  laying  it  black 
and  oozing  inkily  along  the  edge. 

Denny  is  very  old,  how  old  I  never  guessed, 
but  he  must  be  nearly  ninety.  No  one  would  know 
that  by  looking  at  him,  for  he  has  on  him  just  the 
age  that  is  ripeness.  His  smooth  cheek  is  the  colour 
of  a  sun-kissed  russet,  his  teeth  are  good,  his  long 
body  strong  and  still  muscular,  and  clad  in  an  old 
brown  coat  as  to  the  upper  part,  and  lower  in  knee 
breeches  of  corduroy  that  have  faded  to  the  identical 
colour  of  the  yellow  bracken.  On  his  feet  he  wears 
the  quaint,  old-fashioned  brogue  that  our  ancestors 
affected  a  century  ago.  Denny  served  his  apprentice- 
ship to  a  shoemaker,  and  makes  these  brogues  him- 
self. They  are  so  hardened  by  contact  with  the 
bog-water  as  to  be  quite  impervious  to  it,  and  that 
is  a  good  thing  for  Denny,  who  is  nearly  always  up 
to  his  knees  in  some  cutting. 

"  Sure,"  he  continued,  "  I  niver  see  the  like  of  it 
for  beautifulness.  Wirra  now!  isn't  it  the  pity  ye 
couldn't  be  makin*  it  stan'  still  for  a  year  so  ?  " 

"  A  year ! "  I  echoed,  and  sat  down  on  a  clump 
of  heather  covered  with  jewels  to  think  of  what  the 
world  would  be  like  after  a  year  of  still  autumn 

1 80 


The  TurkCutter 


days  filled  with  the  jubilant  music  of  the  lark.  A 
pheasant  crowed  somewhere  far  off  in  the  whins, 
but  the  sound  was  hardly  distinguished  in  the  riot 
of  gladness  overhead — the  larks  were  carrying  their 
song  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven. 

Denny  laid  another  wet  turf  on  the  grass  to  dry, 
and  the  sunlight  stole  in  vivid  scarlet  from  the  edge 
of  the  bog  to  where  we  were,  under  the  canopy  of 
bird  music. 

"  I  wish,"  said  I,  "  that  thing  could  be." 
Denny  thrust  in  the  spade  again,  and  heaved  the 
sod  upwards. 

"  Well,  we  can't  be  havin1  all  we  wish  for,  thank 
God,"  he  answered  me. 

"  But  why  be  thankful  for  it  ?  "  I  asked 
wonderingly. 

u  Well,  if  we  could  be  havin'  all  we  wished  for 
here,  we'd  be  contint  to  have  no  better,"  he  said 
with  a  whimsical  smile  that  wrinkled  all  his  face  up  ; 
"  'twould  be  bad  for  the  poor  an'  worse  for  the  rich, 
the  way  we  could  be  havin'  our  wishes." 

I  looked    through   a  cloud    of  slowly   whirling 
iridescent  gossamers,  and  pondered  on  this. 

"  Suppose,"  I  suggested,  "  you  could  wish  your- 
self no  longer  poor,  Denny  ?  " 

II  Is  it  poor  ?  "  questioned    Denny,  thoughtfully. 
"  Well,  luk  at  now ;  there's  worse   things  nor  bein' 

181 


The  Measure  of  Life 


poor.  Poverty  is  like  this  ould  moss,  ye  must  be 
labourin'  harrd  in  it  to  get  the  bit  at  all.  But, 
musha,  whin  night  comes  luk  at  the  comfort  av  it — 
black  an'  dirty  it  is  up  there  dryin'  in  the  sunshine, 
but  wait  till  it  blazes  on  the  hearth,  wid  the  big  pot 
bubblin'  over  it !  'Tis  beautiful  then,  whin  ye  do  be 
sittin'  along  the  hearth  takin'  an  air  av  it,  an'  ye  do 
be  seem'  the  red  heart  to  it,  an'  the  white  ash  fly  in' 
to  the  leppin'  flame.  Ye  won't  be  despising  the 
poverty  then,  an'  ye  do  be  findin'  more  in  the  deep 
moss  nor  the  turf  for  the  fire.  Aye !  pure  gold — 
a  king's  crown  is  what  came  to  the  spade  one  morn- 
in' — pure  gold  that  soft  ye  could  turn  it  in  the 
fingers  with  the  goodness  av  it ;  a  king's  crown  it 
was  in  the  ould  ancient  days,  whin  there  was  a 
throne  in  Tara,  and  games  at  Teltown." 

"  Yes,"  I  agreed.     "  I  remember." 

"  An'  a  man  may  fin'  in  poverty  the  crown  riches 
wouldn't  buy." 

He  spat  on  his  hands  thoughtfully,  and  dug  with 
circumspect  eye. 

"  What  else  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"Musha,  many  another  thing  forbye,"  he  said, 
"  stone  things — axes  ye  couldn't  be  cuttin'  butter 
wid',  an'  bolts  that's  used  be  thim  we  won't  be  spak- 
in'  av ;  and  once  a  skean  dhu,  dreepin"  red  at  the 
edge — rust,  they  told  me.  Rust!  I  know  me  own 

182 


The  Turf'Cutter 


knows.  That  was  no  rust,  though  it's  hundreds  of 
years,  mabby,  since  it  was  wet  an'  warrm  on  the 
blade.  An'  there  was  once  " — he  paused,  leaning  on 
the  handle  of  his  spade,  and  looked  up  at  me  from 
under  the  edge — "  Once  I  dug  out  a  quare  long  thing, 
a  currah  made  out  of  a  hollow  tree,  an'  in  it  two  little 
ould,  black  leather  dolls,  ye  would  be  sayin',  wid 
a  big  bottle  at  their  feet,  an'  a  cake  av  what  had 
been  good  soda  bread.  Well  now,  God  hilp  us  all 
to  think  thim  was  once  filled  with  the  red  blood 
like  you  an'  me.  It  will  be  hunners  av  years  ago 
that  they  would  be  runnin'  away  wid  each  other,  an', 
like  enough,  a  flood  got  thim.  The  floods  do  be 
cruel  quick  in  the  spring,  an'  mabby  the  prayer  ye 
would  be  sayin'  for  thim  would  be  no  good  to  their 
souls  at  all,  seein'  they  mabby  lived  before  our 
Blessid  Lord  was  born.  But  sure,  no  harrm,  for  the 
one  life  is  in  all,  an'  they  loved." 

"  But  how  can  you  tell  that,  Denny  ? " 
"  Musha,  for  what  would   they  be   runnin'  away 
wid  each  other  for  ? "  he  asked  simply, "  if  it  wouldn't 
be  they  loved  each  other  ?  " 

It  was  a  very  long  while  ago,  but  he  seemed  to 
have  no  difficulty  in  bridging  the  gulf  of  years.  In 
his  own  mind  Denny  was  assured  that  the  two 
leathern,  shrivelled  bog-tanned  remnants  of  primi- 
tive humanity  had  loved  each  other,  and  they  were 

183 


The  Measure  of  Life 


merely  human  in  consequence  to  him,  and  not 
hideous  travesties  on  our  kind. 

"  An'  what  else  did  ye  say  ?  Oh,  plenty  more, 
plenty  more.  Tall  trees  wid  the  acorns  hangin'  on 
thim  still,  and  the  roots  av  thim  down,  God  knows 
where,  on  the  other  side  av  the  worrld.  Quare  it 
is  to  be  thinkin'  that  they  had  the  sun  on  them  in 
this  very  place.  An*  strings  av  yalla  beads  I  have 
foun',  an'  blue  beads,  an'  a  breast-plate  av  bronze, 
a  silver  candlestick  aff  the  altar,  an'  an  ould  bell ; 
swords  now  an'  pikes — aye,  plenty  pikes — an'  guns, 
too.  Faith,  aye !  there's  not  a  thing  ye  could  think 
av  I  haven't  seen  in  the  last  seventy  years  come  out 
av'  the  bog."  He  peered  over  the  cutting  edge,  and 
whispered  mysteriously,  "Ye  niver  know  but  what 
wan  av  thim  'ill  be  listenin',  though  they  know  we 
do  be  spakin'  av  thim.  Miss,  do  ye  min'  the  marn- 
in'  I  foun'  the  two  little,  small,  red-leather  shoes  on 
the  grass  here  ? " 

Oh !  well  did  I  remember  that  morning,  for  it  was 
then  to  me  Denny  proved,  beyond  the  shadow  of 
doubt,  that  my  friends,  the  "  Little  Hidden  People," 
were  not  dreams,  but  reality,  for  he  had  found  a 
forgotten  pair  of  their  tiny  shoes  in  the  bog  where 
they  had  been  dancing. 

"  Whist  now ! "  he  whispered,  shaking  his  head 
wisely.  "  Herself  has  thim  still  —  under  a  glass 

184 


The  TurkCutter 


cover  they  are,  an'  the  bist  plate,  an'  the  dresser. 
Faith,  'twould  be  the  breakin'  av  Brigit's  heart,  iv 
the  Good  People  came  for  thim  now.  Well  do  they 
be  knowin'  that  same,  for  'tis  in  with  thim  an'  out 
with  thim,  day  out  an'  day  in,  an'  Brigit  that  feared 
they  wouldn't  be  through  the  half  door,  that  she's 
tuk  down  the  ould  harseshoe  that's  bin  up  afore  me 
grandfather  was  born." 

The  sun  had  risen  high  by  now,  and  was  pouring 
down  a  flood  of  warm  golden  light  upon  us,  sunlight 
so  golden  and  thick  that  it  seemed  almost  tangible. 
Denny's  glance  followed  my  own,  and  he  nodded 
emphatically. 

"Wouldn't  ye  be  thinkin*  ye  could  sweep  it  in 
hapes,"  he  laughed,  "  an'  go  put  it  in  a  chist  ?  That 
ye  would." 

"  Denny,"  I  began,  "  tell  me,  do  the  Good  People 
still  come  here,  and  are  they  fewer  than  they  used  to 
be  in  the  land  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Denny  with  great  emphasis,  but  very 
softly,  as  if  he  feared  being  overheard,  "I  will  not 
be  sayin'  that ;  but  there's  more  come  to  this  place, 
becas,  ye  see,  they  do  not  be  likin'  the  big  divil's 
divarsion  they  will  be  havin'  in  some  places,  where 
there's  duns  an'  raths.  Murder  alive !  the  contraptions 
that  does  be  comin'  out  iv  thim  motors  is  enough  to 
terrify  the  sun  out  iv  the  sky,  an*  ne'er  a  wan  come 

185 


The  Measure  of  Life 


here  that  they'd  be  min'in'.  Musha  no  !  there's  more 
comes  here  nor  iver  did.  The  Widdy  Walsh,  she 
saw  the  Fairy  Coort  ridin'  by  no  longer  ago  than  last 
Samhain,  all  in  a  trail  av  white  shine — little  green 
men  an'  the  beautiful,  little,  small  ladies.  '  Good 
luck  till  ye  then ! '  says  she,  an'  they  looks  back  at 
her,  an'  says,  laughin',  '  Good  luck  till  yerself,  Mary 
Walsh.'  Faith,  'tis  the  rale  good  luck  she's  had 
since.  So,  wid  the  butter  comin'  at  the  two  plunges 
av  the  dasher,  an'  her  nests  full,  that  she's  got 
the  donkey  goin'  twist  to  Gort-Na-Cree  in  the 
week." 

"  And  did  you  ever  see  the  Fairy  Court, 
Denny  ?  " 

"  Many's  the  time,"  said  Denny  ;  "  many  an* 
many's  the  time  did  I  see  thim.  Sure  ye  couldn't 
help  lovin'  them,  the  little  happy,  green  people.  An' 
there's  thim  will  say,  'Aren't  ye  feared  now,  Dinny, 
to  be  meetin'  the  Good  People  in  the  moss  ?  Sure 
they  will  be  puttin'  a  blast  an  ye.'  Divil  a  bit 
feared  am  I,  an'  no  harrm  iver's  happened  me  at  all, 
at  all,  but  only  good,  for  they'll  be  knowin'  I  love 
thim.  But  they'll  be  takin'  me  ould  hat,  mabby,  an' 
puttin'  it  over  a  settin'  av  wild  duck,  fourteen  an' 
sixteen  to  the  clutch,  an'  that's  good  hilp  for  Brigit 
whin  it  comes  Christmas-time.  An'  mabby  they'll 
be  stalin'  away  me  coat,  an'  cryin1  to  me,  '  Whiro ! 

1 86 


The  Turk-Cutter 


Dinny,  where's  yer  ould  coat  ? '  An'  I'll  be  findin' 
it  acrost  a  growth  av  musraroons  that  would  feed  a 
rigimint.  M'lord  comes  acrost  me  goin'  home  last 
week,  an'  it's  what  he's  sayin' :  'How're  ya  gettin* 
yer  health,  Dinny?  Ye  luk  well.  An'  Brigit  luks 
well.  I  see  her  over  the  half  dure.'  An'  it's  what 
I  will  be  sayin' :  '  Thank  ye  kindly,  m'lord.  It  is 
with  us.  How's  yourself  ?  ' " 

Denny  spat  energetically  on  his  old  hands,  and 
dug  out  quite  a  number  of  wet  sods  before  going  on, 
while  I  thought  on  the  singular  and  sad  beauty  of 
that  thing,  that  the  Irish  will  never  say  "  I  have," 
but  always  "It  is  with  me."  There  is  no  present 
tense  in  the  Erse.  They  look  back  in  their  language 
to  the  glories  of  former  possessions,  and  to  that  which 
has  to  come  ;  but  what  they  have  is  only  lent.  "  It 
is  with  them." 

"And  it  is  what  he  will  be  sayin',"  continued 
Denny,  abruptly.  '"There's  ne'er  a  time  we  meet, 
Dinny,  but  what  I  could  be  wishin'  you  an'  me 
could  be  changed;'  and  he  looks  down,  crooked 
enough,  on  that  ould  big  leg  av  his,  but  the  poor 
eyes  in  him  is  cravin'  peace.  'Faith,'  says  I, 
"  m'lord,  'tis  well  wishes  can't  be  wings,  for  'tis 
far  off  they'd  land  us  if  they  were ; '  an'  the  laugh 
comes  to  him  then,  an'  it  is  what  he  will  be  sayin' 
to  me  :  '  Well,  yours  will  land  you  high  and  dry, 

187 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Dinny.'  An',  sure  enough,  I  wished  him  well.  A 
grand  young  man  he  was  this  sixty  year  back.  An* 
he  luks  back  over  his  shoulder,  whin  the  big  white 
horse  goes  on,  an'  he  will  be  sayin',  '  Dinny,  the 
Good  People  will  have  had  you  in  Moy  Mell,  I'm 
thinkin',  for  'tis  younger  ye  are  iviry  time  I  do  be 
seein1  ye.'  Glory  be  to  Goodness  !  how  can  ye  hilp 
bein'  young  when  the  heart  in  ye  is  glad  iviry  day 
wid  the  beauty  that's  spread  all  roun'  ye.  An'  I'm 
thinkin'  the  Good  Little  People  do  be  comin'  out  av 
Moy  Mell  to  me  an'  kapin'  me  young  ;  for  it's 
nothin'  but  good  they'll  bring  to  thim  that  loves 
thim.  Ye  see,  miss,  whativer  ye  want  to  conquer, 
if  it's  bad  or  good,  there's  but  one  way,  an'  that's  be 
lovin'.  An'  who  set  the  example  but  the  Lord  av 
all?  For  the  thing  ye  love  can't  hate  ye  back, 
though,  mabby,  'twould  dearly  like  to  do  that  same. 
Sure,  love  is  life,  an'  the  one  life  is  in  all.  God  gave 
it  in  the  beginnin',  an',  when  He's  pleased,  'twill  be 
taken  back,  an'  'twould  be  a  cold,  sad  world  widout 
the  fairies." 

A  lark  sprang  suddenly  from  a  tussock  of 
grass  behind  me,  and  went  soaring  upwards, 
cleaving  the  blue  with  a  blade  of  pure  rapture. 
Denny  followed  its  flight  from  under  a  shrivelled 
hand. 

"  They  do  be  sayin',"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  that 
1 88 


The  TurkCutter 


the  song  iv  the  lark  is  the  childer's  prayers.  Like 
enough  'tis  a  true  word,  for  the  heart  of  a  child  is 
joy,  an'  childer  will  be  singin'  iverythin',  prayers  an' 
all,  an'  'tis  right  they  are,  for  God  made  this  worrld 
to  be  happy  in.  So  ! " 


189 


WIND  AND  THE  SILENCE 

T  HAD  been  indoors  all  day;  kept  prisoner  by 
•••  a  great  roaring  wind,  that  drove  before  it 
thunderous  masses  of  piled-up  cloud,  purple-shadowed, 
golden-crested,  billowing  over  each  other,  sending 
forth  now  and  again  in  their  flight  sharp,  crooked 
swords  of  white  fire,  and  quick  bursts  of  clamour, 
that  were  caught  instantly  on  the  tempest,  and  flung 
inland  over  the  swelling  outline  of  the  moors. 

The  air  was  filled  with  the  hollow  crying  of  the 
wind,  its  mad  rejoicings,  and  the  cracking  of  its  mani- 
fold garments  flung  outward  as  it  flew,  and  the 
uproar  of  the  waves  scudding  past  the  cliffs  to  scatter 
in  white  jubilation  over  the  high,  grey  stone  sea-wall. 
Everything  fled  before  the  gale :  withered  flower  and 
leaf,  sand  and  grass,  branches  from  straining  oak  and 
bending  tamarisk;  and  added  to  the  multisonous  out- 
cry of  storm  and  ocean  was  the  screaming  of  the  sea- 
birds  blown  inland,  lapwing,  and  fieldfare,  and  lark,  and 
clouds  of  helpless  sparrows,  all  thrown  helter-skelter, 
this  way  and  that,  with  raised  feathers  wet  and  sorely 
disarrayed,  piteously  protesting  as  they  went. 

190 


Wind  and  the  Silence 


On  the  one  side  my  windows  look  upon  the  sea, 
on  the  other  there  is  the  narrow  road,  down  which  a 
tiny  stream  comes  prattling  to  the  sands.  Sometimes 
a  riotous  blast  would  scoop  the  little  rivulet  from  its 
white  bed,  and  fling  it  in  a  glassy  shower  over  the 
tamarisk  hedge  into  the  moor  beyond. 

Indoors  the  cats  sleep  luxuriously  all  day  long 
before  the  fire,  stirring  languidly  to  stare  with  great 
round  eyes  as  the  wind  bellowed  in  the  wide  chimney, 
and  the  flame  leaped  upwards  to  its  call. 

Since  dawn  it  had  been  like  this,  but  at  sunset 
the  wind  fell  into  the  silence  behind  the  sea,  leaving 
a  sky  of  palest  opal-green,  a  storm-swept  dome  of 
beautiful  colour,  with  only  a  few  thin  wifts  of  hair-like 
crimson  low  on  the  horizon  over  the  departed  sun, 
through  which  the  moon  peered  curiously  on  the 
scintillating  swift  whiteness  of  the  tumultuous  sea,  the 
vague  up-lifted  vastness  of  the  violet-painted  moors. 

On  the  winding,  narrow  track,  climbing  slowly 
upwards,  I  met  none  save  Treweeke's  collie,  which 
hastened  past  with  a  look  of  the  amber  eyes,  and  a 
sweep  of  his  tail  fringes,  but  stayed  for  no  word  of 
greeting,  though  he  and  I  are  familiar  friends. 

I  marvelled  at  his  haste,  but  found  the  reason  a 
little  higher  on  my  way.  A  sheep  had  been  driven 
into  a  steep  little  depression  among  the  rocks,  where 
the  whins  had  taken  hold  of  the  tawny  fleece,  and 

191 


The  Measure  of  Life 


held  it  firmly  prisoner.  There  it  lay  gripped  and 
held,  reconciled  now  to  its  bonds,  knowing  well  that 
Gair  would  speedily  bring  the  shepherd  to  release  it. 

It  fell  dusk  very  quickly  after  that,  a  strange, 
glamorous  dusk,  violet  and  still,  that  lay  only  on  the 
moorland,  blurring  and  obscuring  all  landmarks,  and 
marring  the  distance  so  that  things  near  seemed  far, 
and  things  far  away  within  touch.  Overhead  in  the 
clear,  pale,  rain-washed,  storm-swept  air  the  great 
smooth  profile  of  the  twin  tumuli,  whither  I  was 
bound,  loomed  huge  and  amethystine  close  at  hand  ; 
yet  I  went  on  and  on,  along  the  narrow  sheep  walk, 
and  came  no  nearer. 

It  was  very  still  up  there,  after  the  uproar  and 
tumult  of  the  tempest.  In  that  vast  wild,  lonely 
space,  high  above  the  sea,  was  infinite  peace  and 
silence — strange  dim  calm,  no  stirring  of  the  brown 
heath  and  faded  bracken,  no  movement  or  life; 
absolute  stillness  and  quiet  in  all  the  wide  purple- 
shadowed  gloaming. 

I  think,  perhaps,  there  is  nothing  so  brings  us 
into  intimate  recognition  of  our  own  brief  littleness, 
of  the  futility  of  our  frets  and  fear  and  worries,  as 
walking  like  this  in  the  half-dark,  under  moon  and 
stars,  with  the  way  hidden  from  our  feet,  and  girdled 
about  by  illimitable  distances,  with  a  clear  sky  over- 
head. 

192 


Wind  and  the  Silence 


It  brings  to  the  soul  such  sense  of  its  ultimate 
great  destiny,  such  security  in  the  inevitable  Tightness 
of  things,  that  the  voice  within  speaks  and  is  heard 
over  the  petty  complainings  of  the  day — and  they 
are  hushed  at  its  sound. 

The  moon  waxed  overhead,  the  stars  throbbed 
whitely  in  the  opalescent  heights  above.  Underfoot 
the  soft  winter  greenness  of  the  moorland  path  was 
covered  from  me.  All  the  narrow  little  ways, 
crossing  and  re-crossing,  were  lost  and  dimmed ;  and 
suddenly  into  that  silence  and  stillness  came  the 
innumerous  voices  of  the  sea,  a  faint  rumour  of 
spent  waves,  remote  and  far  below.  In  the  gloom 
I  had  come  against  an  unexpected  barrier  that  I  had 
thought  a  hundred  yards  away. 

How  evanescent  a  thing  is  the  little  life  within 
us !  Another  step,  and  mine  had  gone  out  without 
warning  on  the  upward,  unknown  way.  Far  away 
down,  very  far  away — it  seemed  a  fathomless  abyss 
in  the  vague  shadowy  eve — I  saw  a  great,  heaving 
green  dimness,  and  out  of  it  crept  the  soft,  continuous 
breaking  of  the  sea.  The  eager,  mysterious  whisper 
of  the  running  wave,  the  thin,  clear  undertone  of 
the  sucking  ebb,  and  the  wave  urging  forth  from 
the  gloom  with  upheld  crest  of  gleaming  whiteness, 
to  spread  in  a  fretwork  of  molten  silver  on  the 
darkness  of  the  sand. 

193  o 


The  Measure  of  Life 


The  wave  crept  whispering  in,  crept  whispering 
out,  and  the  dark  grew.  It  was  not  the  beautiful  sea 
I  looked  upon,  the  sea  I  love,  but  a  craving,  awful, 
insistent  Something,  of  supernatural  strength  and 
irresistible  might,  demanding  tribute  off  humanity, 
the  sky,  the  earth,  the  pure  young  moon,  and  waiting 
stars. 

It  is  not  good  to  look  upon  Mananan  when  he 
is  like  that.  I  went  upwards  to  the  grassy  mound 
nearest  the  sea,  and  sat  down  on  its  summit.  Some 
one  has  desecrated  the  quiet  of  that  ancient  burial- 
place.  There  is  a  cruel  gap  in  the  smooth  outline, 
which  Nature  has  made  haste  to  fill,  covering  over  the 
spade  marks  with  a  kinder  hand,  filling  it  in  with 
close,  thick  grass  and  moss,  evergreen  ferns,  and  wild 
strawberry,  and  the  sea-pink,  that  lies  within  the 
crevices  in  spring,  like  drifted  pale  hyacinthine  smoke 
blown  off  the  foam. 

There  is  another  mound  beside  this  larger  one, 
farther  back  from  the  cliff  edge,  that  has  also  been 
entered.  After  all,  what  can  it  matter  to  those  who 
lie  within  ?  They  will  be  none  the  worse,  those 
crumbling  bones,  those  thin  ashes,  that  have  lain  so 
long  above  the  infinite  changes,  the  eternal  sameness 
of  the  calling  ocean.  Whoever  they  were,  they  were 
great  in  their  day,  hence  these  heaps  of  earth  above 
them,  and  the  trench  where  captives  and  slaves  and 

194 


Wind  and  the  Silence 


kinsfolk  were  laid  to  company  them  on  the  Unknown 
Path. 

And  doubtless  they  died  young,  when  the  cup 
of  life  was  brimming  at  their  lips,  for  in  those  far- 
off  days,  nearer  the  beginnings  of  things,  men's 
passions  were  stronger,  their  instincts  still  primitive. 
They  took  when  they  desired,  and  fought  to  keep  it. 
Hence  they  lived  not  long  lives,  and  left  life  while  it 
was  still  sweet.  Life,  love,  and  death  were  real 
things  to  them,  not  faint  illusions.  A  man  fought 
for  love,  for  life,  and  met  death  as  a  mortal  enemy, 
to  be  encountered  with  a  host,  and  armed. 

And  in  that  day  men  did  not  carry  earth  in 
sackfuls  to  heap  over  kings,  unless  they  were  great 
kings,  unless  they  were  great  queens,  they  died  and 
were  dust,  and  none  remembered  them.  So  the  two 
who  sleep  together  on  these  cliffs,  within  sound  of 
the  sea,  were  two  who  left  their  mark  upon  the  time 
they  lived  in.  Strength  they  had,  beauty,  youth. 
Where  are  they  now  ? 

"  Here  for  a  while  they  smiled  and  sang,  alive  in  the  interspace, 
Here  with  the  grass  beneath  the  feet,  and  the  stars  above  the 

face. 
Now  are  their  feet  beneath  the  grass,  and  whither  has  flown 

their  grace  ? " 

Whither  ?  It  is  ill  to  leave  life  while  it  is  yet 
honey-sweet.  It  is  a  longing  to  leave  it  when  the 

195 


The  Measure  of  Life 


draught  tastes  bitter,  when  it  is  full  of  poignant 
regrets  and  never-ending  sorrow.  Men  will  cling  to 
it  even  then,  even  when  it  is  rilled  to  overflowing 
with  tears — then  will  live  on.  That  is  because  the 
soul  is  immortal,  because  it  cannot  age.  The  body 
grows  old  and  weary,  and  the  soul  looks  out  of  its 
battered  cottage,  through  the  chinks  made  by  time, 
and  questions  God,  "  How  long  ?  " 

And  God  sees  it  come  and  go,  under  the  drift- 
ing shadow  of  the  falling  leaf,  under  the  bud  and 
bloom,  with  the  ebb,  with  the  flow,  again  and  again. 
Change  and  change  and  change;  that  is  the  lot 
of  every  living  thing.  Yet  out  of  all  creation 
man  alone  is  the  thing  that  yields  to  voluntary 
death. 

No  other  creature  dies  save  by  violence  only. 
The  life  must  out  by  all  the  gates  of  being,  torn 
apart  by  murderous  force,  to  let  the  red  tide 
flow. 

Here  are  the  everlasting  hills,  the  unchanging 
moorlands,  the  illimitable,  mighty  sea,  and  man,  who 
is  the  lord  over  them  all,  lies  under  this  grassy 
mound,  a  little  handful  of  bones,  a  little  handful  of 
grey  dust.  For  three  score  years  and  ten  he  may 
conquer  splendidly;  three  score  years  and  ten,  and 
even  when  he  reaches  the  allotted  time.  Behold,  it  is 
out  of  joint.  He  is  a-weary  of  it. 

196 


Wind  and  the  Silence 


"  Only  to  Gods  in  heaven, 
Comes  no  old  age,  or  death  of  anything." 

Comes  no  fretting  of  the  immortal  pent  within  the 
mortal,  no  futile  longings  for  the  spreading  of 
imprisoned  wings. 

And  at  three  score  and  ten  there  is  no  longer 
power  to  hold  the  sword  with  intent.  The  mind  is 
tired  and  longing  for  the  dusk.  The  eyes  are  weary- 
It  is  strife  and  tumult,  storm  and  battle.  Is  it  worth 
while  ? 

A  faint  cry  came  up  through  the  darkness  to  the 
place  where  I  sat,  a  little  tremulous,  appealing  cry, 
and  the  sound  of  a  multitude  of  small  feet  on  the 
mossy  path. 

I  saw  him  dimly  through  the  gloom.  A  tall, 
compassionate  figure,  bending  over  the  burden  in  his 
arms  as  he  climbed  up  and  on.  In  the  dusk  he  looked 
luminously  real,  while  the  flock  of  sheep  pressing  at 
his  heels,  near  him,  after  him,  were  but  a  flock  of 
pale  shadows,  storm-driven  and  weary,  meh-ing 
faintly  in  voices  faint  and  unreal  as  the  innumerable 
echoes  of  the  wave  below. 

And  that  I  thought  is  Humanity  and  the  Shepherd : 
a  flock  of  shadows  following  a  meek,  compassionate, 
thorn-crowned  King,  to  the  far  heights  above  the 
tumult  and  striving  of  the  ocean.  It  is  to  Him 
alone  we  can  look  for  examples  and  guidance — the 

197 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Shepherd  of   souls.     Upwards  and  ever   upwards. 

Oh  yes !  it  is  worth  while,  and  the  time  we  know  it 

fully  is — 

"  When  the  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  tingles,  and  the  nerves  prick  and  tingle, 
And  the  heart  is  sick,  and  all  the  wheels  of  being  slow." 

When  we  go  out  of  the  wind  into  the  silence  and  the 
peace. 


198 


FEOGHDAWN 

'TpHE  white  strand  of  Kilmore  sparkles  in  the 
•*•  sun,  bright  as  the  wild  Atlantic  surges  that 
race  green-blue  into  the  wide  half-moon  of  the  bay. 
A  lonely,  silent,  curlew-haunted  place,  strewn  with 
tiny  shells,  fragile  and  transparent,  polished  like 
jewels  ;  many  coloured  in  their  diaphanous  thinness 
as  the  ghosts  of  dead  flowers,  raised  by  palingenesis. 
Kilmore  lies,  with  the  Old  Head  of  Kinsale  on  the 
one  side  of  it,  and  the  Seven  Heads  standing  away 
out  to  ocean  on  the  other ;  and  midway,  black 
against  the  horizon,  one  solitary  point  of  rock,  over 
which  the  great  waves  break  in  clouds  of  spouting, 
drifting  foam.  From  Barra  Point  to  O'Donohue's 
Tower  there  is  no  sign  of  human  habitation,  though 
here  and  there,  hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  low  hills, 
are  little  farms  and  cabins  where  the  fisher-folk 
live.  The  hills  are  silent  in  the  August  day,  dim, 
hyacinthine  with  the  heath  and  heather,  golden  with 
the  fading  bracken,  and  always  billowing  over  their 
crests,  the  white  fleeciness  of  the  slow-sailing  clouds. 
Sometimes  in  the  early  morn  the  mists  drift  over 

199 


The  Measure  of  Life 


them,  grey  and  chill,  or  a  burst  of  rain  in  the  midday, 
diamond  bright  in  the  sun.  Always  beautiful,  always 
wonderful,  solitary  and  still,  with  no  voice  to  break 
their  solitudes  save  the  falling  of  water,  or  the  far- 
reaching  call  of  the  sea. 

This  morning  I  sat  in  the  little  church,  built  amid 
the  ruins  of  a  once  famous  monastery.  The  simple 
house  was  filled  with  the  fishermen  and  their  women- 
kind,  a  reverent,  quiet  crowd.  Four  little  acolytes 
attended  the  old,  grey  priest  who  said  Mass.  Four 
little  children,  pure  and  sweet,  who  sat  during  the 
short  exhortation,  with  their  chins  in  their  palms, 
wide-eyed  and  grave,  like  meditating  angels.  A 
dove  came  in  through  the  wide-set  door  and  perched 
upon  an  arm  of  the  rood,  preening  its  white  feathers. 
A  little  child  crooned  to  itself  happily  in  its  girl- 
mother's  arms.  The  wind  came  in  fitfully,  heavy 
with  the  odour  of  the  sea,  and  over  all,  through  all, 
permeating  all,  the  sound  of  the  restless  illimitable 
ocean.  Part  of  the  exhortation  was  in  the  Erse,  part 
in  the  English,  as  it  came  into  the  old  father's  mind. 
It  was  strange  and  mystical — unexpected  in  this 
remote  place — yet  as  it  ought  to  be;  for  it  was  of 
supernatural  things  the  father  talked,  warning  his  flock 
against  the  Unknown.  To  beware  of  the  thing  that 
could  not  be  met  in  the  Name  of  God.  And  ever  as 
he  talked,  in  his  low,  deep  Irish  voice,  I  saw  a  little 

200 


Feoghdawn 

stir  among  the  people,  a  shuddering  that  passed  as 
the  wind  passes  when  it  blows  over  the  flowering 
grass ;  and  side  glances  at  one  who  sat  immovable 
under  the  hood  of  her  great  Irish  cloak,  white-faced 
and  still.  I  wondered  at  her  beauty  as  I  watched 
her.  It  was  great  as  it  was  rare,  and  strange,  though 
I  could  not  at  that  moment  see  the  reason  of  its 
strangeness.  She  had  the  yellow  hair,  the  long, 
dark-lashed  blue  eyes,  and  the  tall  slenderness  of  the 
daughters  of  the  Danan  ;  but  it  was  a  frozen  beauty, 
without  life  or  movement,  and  she  never  prayed,  but 
seemed  always  to  be  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  sea 
and  the  wind.  When  mass  was  ended  I  met  her  at 
the  door,  and  saw  that  her  face  was  like  the  face  of 
the  dead,  grey  in  its  whiteness,  though  her  lips  had 
the  red  of  the  quicken  in  them,  and  her  eyes  the  blue 
of  ocean.  So  might  a  woman  look  if  her  soul  had 
gone  out  of  her  while  she  walked  the  earth,  alive,  and 
yet  dead.  And  so  might  one  look  who  had  gazed 
upon  Medusa. 

Sitting  by  the  sea,  one  told  me  her  story.  He 
was  Peter  Lehane,  and  he  had  loved  her,  before  the 
thing  that  made  her  what  she  was  had  come  upon 
her,  and  this  is  what  he  told  me — 

"  It  was  about  Samhain  last  year  this  happened, 
an'  I  will  not  be  sayin*  it  was  not  Samhain  Eve  itself, 
that  the  finish  came."  He  paused  and  looked  round 

201 


The  Measure  of  Life 


him  uneasily,  out  at  the  changing  blueness  of  the  sea, 
and  up  to  the  hills,  looking  as  if  they  had  been 
washed  with  the  wine  of  enchantment.  "  I  would 
not  be  likin'  Them  to  hear  me,"  he  said  softly.  "  Yet 
you  would  say,  '  Who  can  hear  ? '  an'  we  so  far  by 
ourselves.  'Twas  nigh  Samhain,  as  I  was  tellin',  an' 
there  came  a  stranger  up  to  Timoleague  in  his  boat. 
I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  man  in  my  days.  The 
tallness  of  him,  an'  the  blackness  of  his  hair,  an'  the 
blueness  of  his  eyes,  an*  the  broadness  that  was  on 
his  shoulders — 'twas  like  two  men's  strength  he  had 
— an'  the  birds  might  sing  sweeter  than  the  voice  of 
him,  but  I  would  be  doubtin'  it.  An'  I  have  cause  to 
tell ;  for  he  broke  the  heart  in  me  with  it.  Well,  he 
came  courtin'  Maire  with  the  yellow  locks — Maire 
Budh — that  would  have  been  mine,  an'  he  put  the 
glamour  on  her  so  that  she  would  'a'  gone  to  the 
crook  of  his  little  finger,  though  the  heart  in  her  was 
pure  as  a  one  night's  snow.  A  fisherman  from 
Clifden  he  said  he  was — sorrow  on  the  sayin' — an' 
the  big  boat  he  had  was  his  own.  A  strange  boat 
that ;  long  an'  thin,  an'  with  the  swiftness  on  her, 
that  she  would  sail  in  the  wind's  eye,  an'  outrun  the 
wind.  An*  himself  was  to  marry  Maire,  but  he  was 
putting  it  off,  an'  off,  an'  not  a  one  of  us  ever  askin' 
why.  An'  every  night  he  put  out  in  the  boat  an'  off 
to  Clifden,  as  we  thought.  Twas  the  bitter  drop  to 

202 


Feoghdawn 

me  to  see  Maire  waitin'  for  him  at  the  dark,  an' 
settin'  him  off  in  the  gloamin' ;  but  I  bore  up,  for  I 
would  not  let  her  know. 

"  But  one  dark  night  she  sat  in  her  own  door,  up 
there  on  the  hill,  an'  I  by  the  jamb,  an*  I  heard  him 
call  her  off  the  sea.  Yes,  you  may  well  look  ;  but, 
clear  as  you  hear  me,  I  heard  him  call  her  name,  an* 
so  did  she.  Off  she  went  like  a  fawn.  But  there  was 
a  somethin'  in  my  mind  that  all  was  not  right,  an'  I 
followed  her.  There,  out  in  the  blackness  of  the  sea, 
was  a  ring  of  white  light,  an'  out  of  it  came  a  singin' 
that  tore  the  soul  out  of  my  body  with  sweetness. 
Never  did  I  hear  the  like  of  it — never.  In  a  good  hour 
be  it  spoken,  may  I  hear  the  like  again.  '  Maire  ! 
Maire ! '  called  the  voice,  an'  '  Maire !  Maire ! '  She 
stepped  in  my  old  boat  that  lay  up  in  the  sand,  an'  I 
ran  her  out  to  the  brightness  on  the  waves.  What 
lay  in  it  I  do  not  know,  but  I  heard  a  voice  call 
again,  an'  the  sound  of  it  turned  the  blood  in  me  to 
water,  for  it  was  the  very  voice  of  love — '  Maire  ! ' 

"She  stood  up  in  the  bows  an*  threw  herself 
forward,  callin'  back  to  him  that  cried  to  her.  '  My 
soul  for  the  price  of  his  ! '  she  says,  an'  with  that 
she  .would  have  been  in  the  sea,  but  I  caught  her, 
an'  held  her  tight.  'Wherever  your  soul  may  pay 
the  price,'  says  I,  'Maire,  asthore,  your  body  stays 
with  me.'  An'  with  that  there  came  against  me  the 

203 


The  Measure  of  Life 


first  of  three  great  waves,  high  as  the  hills,  an*  the 
last  of  them  was  the  greatest  of  all,  an'  in  it  was  the 
sound  of  singin'  an'  laughter,  an'  a  caressin'  voice 
that  talked  an'  bade  me  have  no  fear.  Fear  I  had, 
but  it  held  on  to  God,  an'  cried  to  His  Holy  Mother 
that  I  might  not  let  her  go.  So  the  wave  fled  away 
an'  left  her  in  my  arms,  drenched  an'  still. 

"  I  took  her  home  on  my  shoulder,  with  the  gulls 
an'  the  curlews  screamin'  roun'  me  an'  the  plover 
cryin'  all  the  way,  but  I  never  looked  back,  or 
hearkened  to  the  voice  that  talked  in  my  ear,  or  said 
word  beyond  the  prayer  that  was  in  my  heart  that  I 
might  be  saved  from  the  sea.  For  the  sea  was  about 
me  an'  around  me  that  night,  an*  the  voice  that 
talked  was  the  sound  of  the  sea  itself,  an'  the  saltness 
of  it  in  my  lips  an'  in  my  eyes,  an'  in  the  breath  I 
drew. 

"The  man  that  went  out  in  the  eve  came  back 
never  to  Maire  Budh.  She  saw  his  face  no  more  ; 
an'  sometimes  her  mother  would  be  thinkin'  it  was 
the  grief  that  makes  her  what  she  is,  an'  sometimes 
the  father  will  be  sayin',  '  It  is  a  blast  she  got.'  But 
there  does  be  a  Wise  Woman  beyond  Barra,  an'  she 
said  to  me  a  strange  thing,  that  you  will  not  be  men- 
tionin'  to  the  good  Father.  The  name  of  the  man 
that  courted  Maire  was  Morgan,  an'  that  name  does 
be  meanin'  '  a  man  from  the  sea ! '  An'  there  will 

204 


Feoghdawn 

be  a  cousin  of  mine  in  Arran  that  told  me  he  saw 
him  there  walkin'  the  shore  in  a  long  cloak  of  blue, 
an'  a  green  tunic  under  it,  that  had  a  fringe  to  it  like 
the  feoghdawn  in  harvest — white  as  the  driven  snow. 
"An*  who  will  you  be  thinkin'  that  is  but 
Mananan,  the  son  of  Lir,  that  lived  a  thousand  year 
ago.  An'  as  for  Maire  Budh,  I  am  thinkin'  that  the 
soul  of  her  is  with  him,  though  how  that  can  be  I  do 
not  know,  seein'  she  was  baptized.  But  I'm  not  livin' 
this  forty  year  without  findin'  out  that  there  is  more 
in  the  sea  than  comes  out  of  it,  an'  what  it  takes  it 
keeps,  an'  what  it  wills  it  throws  back  to  the  land,  an' 
what  it  has  had  will  be  its  own  for  ever." 


205 


CRUX   MYSTICA 

TT  was  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  July  that  I  sat 
•*•  with  old  Conal  the  Weaver  in  his  little  box- 
bordered  garden,  beside  the  skeps  where  the  bees 
lived,  and  the  air  was  slumberous  with  the  murmur 
of  their  coming  and  going  to  and  fro  off  the  gold  and 
purple  of  the  bog. 

There  the  heather  was  already  flowering,  the  rag- 
weed and  losse-strife  flamed  in  the  hot  sun  ;  the  bog 
lay  painted  in  interminable  stretches  of  gold  and 
amethyst.  Lonely  and  deserted  of  all  life,  save  the 
fluttering  thrush  and  silent-footed  blackbird,  songless 
now,  or  the  swift  sidelong  movement  of  the  willow- 
wren,  singing  "  Sweet,  you !  sweet,  you ! "  to  his 
mate. 

Afar,  on  the  verge  of  the  bog,  the  hills  lifted 
themselves  up  to  the  sky  in  wavering  degrees  of 
hyacinth  and  violet,  the  cloud-shadows  trailing  over 
them,  velvet  soft.  Beyond  the  hills  the  sea  broke 
tumultuously  and  unseen,  but  the  waters  of  the 
mystic  lough  lifted  and  fell  in  sympathy  with  its 
mood.  Though  there  was  no  wind  on  the  shore,  and 

206 


Crux  Mystica 

the  lough  has  no   tides,  the   leaden   little  wavelets 
broke  with  a  sighing  cadence  on  its  white  sands. 

All  the  sounds  were  but  a  part  of  the  silence  that 
ever  broods  over  the  submerged  fairy  city,  and  to 
them  were  added  the  holy  stillness  of  the  Sabbath 
morning — the  deep  permeating  hush  which  soothes 
the  soul,  like  the  touch  of  a  beloved  hand. 

Conal  sat  in  his  straw  chair  with  an  old  volume 
in  his  hand  ;  now  he  read  in  it,  now  he  looked  out  on 
the  bog  and  the  lough,  or  listened  to  the  bees.  Well 
I  remembered  the  story  of  that  book,  and  his  voice 
as  he  told  me  the  tale  of  the  wandering  king  whose 
wife  wove  all  day  long  and  ravelled  her  web  at  night. 
Conal  had  yet  another  old  book,  filled  with  tales 
more  beautiful  than  that,  and  in  another  and  perhaps 
older  tongue.  In  it  were  the  Three  Sorrows  of  Story- 
Telling  ;  all  of  them  I  knew  by  heart,  while  yet  I  was 
a  little  child.  But  far  better  even  than  these  did  I 
love  those  stories  Conal  told  of  his  own  people. 

"  There  is  a  little  maid  born  to  Mary  Cno,"  said 
I,  "  and  she  is  strangely  marked,  with  a  cross  between 
her  eyes.  Now,  what  manner  of  portent  may  that  be 
to  the  child  ?  " 

Conal  brooded  in  the  sun,  and  did  not  seem  to 
hear.  The  bees  droned  on  in  the  sun-drenched 
sweetness  of  the  morning,  above  the  pinks  and  sweet- 
william  ;  the  willow-wren  came  down  among  the 

207 


The  Measure  of  Life 


hanging  stone-crop  on  the  thatched  roof,  and  called 
"  Sweet,  you  !  sweet,  you ! "  into  the  slumberous 
silence. 

Then  Conal  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the 
little  brown  bird,  and  smiled. 

"  There  was  a  little  maiden  once,"  he  began,  "  a 
long  while  back  it  is  ;  but  I  do  remember  her  well, 
because  she  had  such  beauty  that  those  who  looked 
upon  her  once  might  never  forget  her.  Though  it  is 
not  because  of  the  beauty  I  remember,  but  for 
another  reason. 

"  And  that  little  maid  was  of  the  blood  of  Sorley 
Boy,  and,  like  all  her  race,  she  had  on  her  head  the 
impress  of  the  diadem  ;  for  that  race  came  down 
from  the  Tuatha  de  Danan,  who  were  wondrous 
beautiful  and  knew  not  decay  or  death  till  Christ  was 
come.  And  of  all  the  Pagan  races,  none  knew  of 
that  coming  save  the  old  king,  who  sat  with  the 
brain-ball  in  his  head,  and,  looking  out  through 
space,  beheld  the  Lord ;  and  the  ball  burst  forth  as 
he  fell  down  to  worship ;  so  he  died,  and  that  was 
the  first  death  among  them — for  they  came  of  that 
earlier  creation  which  married  the  Sons  of  Elohim, 
before  Adam  and  Eve. 

"  They  are  all  beautiful,  with  hair  like  spun  gold 
and  grey  eyes  that  are  blue.  Tall,  with  skins  like 
the  hawthorn  blossom,  tall  and  gracious ;  but  pride 

208 


Crux  Mystica 

is  their  curse  and  bane,  and  but  for  that  they  would 
be  like  the  angels. 

"  Now  all  that  race  had  a  great  love  for  the  Lord, 
even  when  they  only  knew  of  Him  by  their  magic 
arts ;  and  this  little  maid  that  I  tell  you  of  had  a 
special  devotion  to  Him  from  her  babyhood,  for  she 
was  never  like  other  children,  and  always  alone. 
Her  mother  died  when  she  was  born,  her  father  fell 
on  the  field  of  battle,  and  her  kinsfolk  lived  far  away 
from  the  old  house  where  her  childhood  was  spent 
among  her  servants. 

"  They  all  loved  that  child  with  a  great  love,  and 
she  wandered  among  them  as  she  would,  and  always 
singing  ;  she  had  the  voice  of  the  linnet,  singing 
between  the  silences  of  the  eve.  Wonderful  lovely 
she  was,  with  her  white  skin  and  her  yellow  hair,  and 
right  between  her  thin  brows  a  cross  was  marked,  as 
if  traced  on  the  ivory  forehead  by  a  faint  pencil,  yet 
distinct  as  if  it  had  been  drawn  in  scarlet. 

"  Now  it  was  a  strange  thing  that  that  child  had 
but  one  longing,  and  she  never  ceased  to  speak  of  it. 
She  longed  to  meet  the  Lord  on  the  mountain-tops 
and  kiss  the  nail  wounds  in  His  feet.  You  will  say, 
a  strange  thing !  But  it  ran  in  that  child's  blood  to 
long  for  that  thing,  and  none  may  say  why. 

"And  her  old  nurse  was  apt  to  tell  the  priest 
that  one  day  the  child  she  loved  would  have  a 

209  P 


The  Measure  of  Life 


Gethsemane ;  and  the  priest  instructed  her,  saying, 
'What  woman  is  there  who,  having  loved,  has  not 
spent  a  night  in  that  garden  ? '  and  the  nurse  could 
say  nothing  in  answer. 

"  Then  this  child  grew  on  in  beauty  and  passed 
her  life  in  wanderings  over  bog  and  mountain,  taking 
a  bite  and  sup  with  the  poor  and  blessed  by  all  for 
her  sweetness  and  grace.  Till  at  last  her  kinsfolk  came 
for  her  and  sent  her  to  a  foreign  land  to  be  taught. 

"  When  she  came  to  be  a  woman  grown  she  was 
too  proud  to  be  a  burden  to  her  kin,  and  chose  to 
sing  for  her  bread — and  her  singing  was  like  the  song 
of  birds  before  the  dawn.  She  could  charm  the 
multitude  to  whatever  mood  she  willed.  She  had 
the  gift  and  the  power.  But  though  she  swayed  them 
so,  she  felt  none  of  it  herself;  she  had  the  double 
nature  that  can  feel  and  compel  all  others  and  yet  be 
apart  and  afar.  And  she  was  proud — very  proud — 
and  kept  herself  away,  as  if  the  world  were  con- 
tamination, as  it  sometimes  is. 

"And  she  was  the  offspring  of  the  age  of  the 
world  and  the  newness  of  time ;  all  extremes  met  in 
her  and  made  glamour.  The  world  knelt  and 
worshipped,  but  she  remained  cold  ;  she  had  nothing 
to  give  in  return  save  her  beauty  and  her  voice,  for 
the  longing  of  her  childhood  consumed  her  soul  and 
made  her  scorn  them  all. 

210 


Crux  Mystica 

"Some  loved  her  for  her  beauty,  some  for  her 
voice,  some  for  the  coldness  of  her  heart ;  but  for 
none  had  she  any  return.  She  was  the  statue  with  a 
thousand  masks — the  line  between  earth  and  sky  that 
none  can  touch  or  see. 

"  But  among  the  poor,  the  suffering,  and  the  sick 
this  woman  was  sweet  as  the  child  had  been,  so  that 
among  them  she  was  at  home  and  happy.  Only 
she  had  a  great  failing,  for  she  had  no  charity  for 
those  who  love  and  fall,  or  for  those  whom  all  women 
should  pray  for  in  pity.  From  these  she  drew  herself 
away,  as  fearing  an  accursed  contact. 

"  She  knew  no  love ;  yet  the  ardent  passion  of 
her  race  leaped  full-grown  to  her  when  the  time  came, 
and  brought  her  all  the  misery  of  humiliation,  for  the 
man  was  a  king's  son  and  was  evil. 

"And  this  woman  loved  him  almost  beyond 
mortal  endurance,  and  yet  was  strong,  so  that  in  the 
end  he  hated  her,  and  her  heart  broke.  All  her 
charm  left  her.  She  had  no  longer  the  power  to 
sway  the  crowd  as  she  would,  for  her  faith  in  herself 
was  gone.  Then  her  voice  went  too  ;  and  after  that 
one  robbed  her,  and  left  her  poor,  broken,  and  com- 
passed about  by  the  bitterness  of  death. 

"Even  the  poor  of  the  great  city  forgot  her 
benefactions,  and  had  no  welcome  for  her  within 
their  doors.  Oh !  there  was  no  pain,  no  bitterness, 

211 


The  Measure  of  Life 


no  want,  that  woman  did  not  know  before  the  hand 
of  death  fell  on  her,  and  she  turned  homewards  to 
her  own  at  last. 

"She  came  among  them  in  the  early  summer, 
when  the  hawthorn  was  still  out  and  the  gorse  yet 
flaming  on  the  hills  ;  and  she  went  back  in  that  time 
to  her  childhood,  for  the  lightness  before  death  was 
on  her,  and  her  lost  voice  returned,  so  that  she  went 
singing  through  the  bogs  and  over  the  mountains  as 
she  had  done  in  the  bygone  days. 

"And  always  she  remembered  the  briefest  glance, 
the  softest  word,  the  man  she  loved  had  bestowed  on 
her,  and  knew  there  is  no  forgetting ;  and  at  times 
her  heart  was  bitter,  for  she  was  still  proud. 

"  There  came  a  day  when  the  sea  mists  crept  over 
the  hills  and  down  to  the  bogs,  rolling  in  great  white 
billows,  so  that  one  might  think  of  it  as  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  Old  People.  And  on  that  day  this 
woman  was  very  near  her  end,  and  yet  she  would  be 
carried  up  the  hills.  And  on  the  way  near  to  the 
top  they  came  upon  a  stranger  seated  on  a  broad 
stone,  clad  in  worn  silks,  with  the  paint  red  on  her 
thin  cheeks ;  and  they  stopped  at  her  command  and 
put  the  woman  down. 

"'Why/  she  asked  the  wanderer,  'do  you  sit 
here  ?  The  mists  will  swallow  you,  so  that  you  may 
sink  in  the  bog  and  none  hear  your  cry.' 

212 


Crux  Mystica 

"And  the  painted  thing  laughed  and  thrust  out 
her  small  feet.  Her  shoes  had  fallen  off,  and  her 
feet  bled  through  the  silken  hose. 

" '  I  can  go  no  farther,'  she  said  mockingly. 
Surely  I  may  die  on  your  hills,  O  woman  without  a 
heart ! ' 

"  Then  this  woman  told  her  people  to  carry  that 
outcast  down  to  her  house,  and  she  followed  a-foot, 
weak  and  sick,  for  the  end  was  near. 

"  And  she  took  off  with  her  hands  the  outcast's 
rags,  and  washed  her  bleeding  feet,  and  as  she  held 
them  in  her  hand  it  seemed  to  her  suddenly  that 
they  were  the  dimpled  feet  of  a  little  child,  and  she 
put  her  lips  to  them,  for  in  her  soul  she  craved  now 
at  the  hour  of  death  that  strange  thing  that  had  so 
filled  her  childhood  with  longing. 

"  And  as  she  laid  her  lips  on  the  bleeding  feet, 
she  saw  on  them  two  blue  circled  wounds,  and  fell  on 
her  face,  crying  out,  and  a  voice  spoke  from  the 
innermost  recesses  of  her  soul. 

" '  But  to  the  lost  sheep !  .  .  .  Oh,  child  of  mine 
whom  I  have  signed  with  my  own  sign ! ' 

"  So  as  the  old  king  her  ancestor  died  with  the 
joy  of  knowing  Christ's  birth,  so  this  woman  died  and 
the  saints  took  her." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  Conal's  eyes  looked  out 
to  the  far-off  violet  of  the  hills  where  the  woman's 

213 


The  Measure  of  Life 


feet  had  trod,  and  he  was  like  a  man  who 
dreams. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  said.  "Did  she  learn 
humility  at  the  last?  Does  the  Lord  appear  on 
earth  ?  I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  knew,"  responded  Conal,  softly,  "  you  would 
be  saying  that  thing.  But  there  will  be  no  answer  to 
it  at  all." 

"  Then  it  is  only  a  story  ? " 

"And  it  is  not  all  a  story,"  replied  Conal, 
dreamily ;  "  for  why  should  not  the  Master  come  to 
those  that  love  Him  in  the  day  of  their  sorrow,  when 
the  lesson  is  fully  learnt  ?  And  that  will  be  the 
meaning  of  the  Cross — mystical  love,  mystical  suffer- 
ing, and  a  bitterness  that  is  deeper  than  the  sea." 

"And  the  other  woman  ? " 

"There  was  no  woman  but  her  of  the  yellow 
hair — and  she  was  dead." 


214 


IN   THE    DAWN   OF  TIME 

T  REMEMBER  in  my  childhood  listening  spell- 
bound to  an  old  tale,  told  at  the  cross-roads 
after  the  dancing  by  a  peasant  schoolmaster  to  an 
enthralled  audience  of  peasant  men  and  women. 
Often  afterwards  I  heard  the  same  story,  always 
with  fresh  awe  and  great  wonder  and  the  same  feel- 
ing of  impotent  searching  after  more. 

Yet  more  was  impossible,  for  the  only  one  who 
could  tell  more  than  I  heard  at  that  first  recital  was 
old  and  blind,  and  soon  to  go  out  where  all  things 
are  discovered,  and  would  not  speak. 

It  was  when  Donagh  Mor  was  young,  strong,  and 
beautiful,  with  the  fervid  youth  of  the  Celt,  that  he 
was  ploughing  in  his  three-acre  field  on  the  hillside. 
A  weird  plot  of  ground  it  was,  centering  round  a  holy 
well,  shaded  over  by  a  gnarled  and  twisted  thorn 
bedecked  with  fluttering  rags,  hung  there  by  those 
who  came  to  bathe  their  darkening  eyes  in  the  blessed 
waters. 

Every  rood  of  the  swelling,  fertile  hillside,  enclosed 
by  wavering  fences  of  loose  stone,  was  haunted 

215 


The  Measure  of  Life 


ground,  as  well  it  might  be.  The  Celtic  memory, 
strangely  long  for  the  unwritten  story  of  the  past, 
recalled  vividly  that  Samhain  Eve  when  a  battle 
raged  from  dawn  till  dark  from  the  sea  to  its  green 
summit,  and  every  wave  lifted  on  its  crest  some 
golden-haired,  long-eyed  warrior  fallen  from  the  De 
Danan  hosts — long,  long  ago,  far  in  the  dimness 
of  time. 

The  mysterious  angel  -  descended  race  which 
perished  in  its  thousands  on  that  Samhain  Eve 
was  no  rude  people ;  it  knew  all  we  are  only  just 
beginning  to  find  out,  and  more  than  our  finite 
understanding  will  ever  attain  to.  Nothing  was 
hidden  from  them,  they  were  immortally  young 
with  the  newness  of  death  freshly  come  upon  them. 
They  could  be  slain,  but  never  grew  old ;  they  were 
beautiful,  powerful,  great  workers  in  magic  and  en- 
chantments that  were  not  evil.  Nor  had  they  any 
fear  of  death,  for  they  knew  that  even  the  soul-casing 
is  immortal  and  cannot  perish,  but  is — in  changing 
forms  and  varying  shapes — ever  a  component  part 
of  keen,  joyous  existence,  while  the  soul  goes  on  to 
higher  and  larger  life. 

There  are  some  who  say  their  bodies  knew  no 
corruption  till  after  Christ  came — of  that  there  is  no 
surety;  certain  this  is— they  possessed  strange  arts 
by  which  they  defied  decay,  and  Donagh  Mor  proved 

216 


In  the  Dawn  of  Time 


this  for  himself.  One  day  his  ploughshare  swerved 
aside  in  the  furrow,  and  laid  bare  a  white  stone  that 
moved  him  to  great  curiosity,  so  that  he  took  out 
his  horses  and  set  to  work  with  pick  and  spade  to 
uncover  it. 

It  lay  not  far  from  the  surface — a  level  slab  of 
smooth  marble,  on  which  lay  a  woman's  form  wrapped 
about  in  a  long,  clinging  garment  and  with  a  veil 
about  her  small  head.  Digging  deeper,  he  dis- 
covered this  to  be  but  the  lid  of  a  long  kist,  covered 
with  sculptured  figures,  and  with  an  inscription  run- 
ning round  the  bottom. 

Donagh  was  a  peasant,  yet  he  could  read  Greek 
— but  for  his  father's  early  death  he  would  have  been 
a  priest.  So  he  was  able  to  make  out  a  name — though 
the  language  was  not  Greek  in  which  it  was  written 
— but  an  older  and  unfamiliar  one.  Long  it  is  since 
I  heard  the  story,  but  the  same  I  remember  as  if 
heard  but  yesterday — it  was  Selanti. 

When  Donagh  had  deciphered  thus  far  he  had  a 
curious  longing  to  see  the  woman  who  had  borne  the 
name — even  though  his  sense  told  him  nothing  could 
be  left  of  her  save  dust.  It  was  late  in  the  day  then, 
yet  he  hastened  down  to  his  home  and  brought  the 
wherewithal  to  lever  the  lid  off  the  marble  sarcophagus 
so  that  he  might  see  within. 

It  was  deeply  grooved  and  set  with  the  strength 
217 


The  Measure  of  Life 


of  ages,  so  that  the  shadows  crept  down  the  hillside 
to  meet  the  summer  mists  off  the  sea  long  before  his 
labour  made  any  impression  on  the  stone  hinges. 

He  ceased  for  a  while,  and  drank  from  his  palms 
of  the  Tobermory  water,  watching  the  kist  the 
while.  It  was  very  still  and  lonely  there,  over  the 
whispering  wave,  with  no  sound  in  the  stillness  but 
the  wash  of  the  sea  and  the  cracking  of  the  gorse- 
pods,  and  from  afar  the  cry  of  the  plover  sinking  into 
it  like  a  stone  thrown  into  deep  water. 

Over  him  the  sky  was  palest  beryl,  with  a  new 
moon  of  silver  and  but  one  star — cloudless,  remote, 
serene.  He  was  filled  with  the  sense  of  impending 
happiness,  which  is  joy.  He  hastened  back  to  his 
work,  and  levered  the  lid  gently  off,  so  that  it  fell  on 
the  loose  soil  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  dark,  with  the  luminous  dusk  of  the  summer 
eve,  and  out  of  the  sarcophagus  rose  a  misty  effulgence 
of  golden  light  that  took  away  for  a  space  from  his 
eyes  the  gift  of  sight,  so  that  he  ran  to  the  holy  well 
and  bathed  them.  When  he  returned  he  looked 
within  the  tomb  and  saw  that  which  filled  his  after 
life  with  exquisite  longing  and  vain  misery. 

At  her  feet  a  curiously  wrought  lamp,  golden  and 
set  with  dull  jewels,  glowing  with  seven  tongues  of 
mystical  flame.  The  light  brimmed  over  from  it,  and 
ran  down  the  marble  sides  on  the  furrowed  earth. 

218 


In  the  Dawn  of  Time 


And  in  the  midst  of  this  soft  glory  of  light  a  woman 
lay  as  if  asleep,  her  head  on  one  side,  her  lips,  faintly 
carmine,  parted  in  a  wistful  smile.  Her  face,  colder 
in  its  pallor  than  new  snow,  was  yet  as  if  she  breathed 
an  exquisite  life,  her  hair,  parted  above  a  broad  low 
brow,  ran  in  golden  spirals  to  her  very  feet.  Her 
clothing,  so  fine  as  to  be  almost  intangible,  wrapped 
her  about  in  white  misty  brightness.  One  hand  held 
a  mirror ;  the  other,  fine,  tapering,  and  lovely,  lay 
covered  with  gems  on  her  breast.  In  the  hush  of  the 
summer  evening  it  was  as  if  the  shadows  hastened  off 
hill  and  sea  to  look  down  on  this  marvellous  loveliness, 
asleep  in  a  lucid  transplendency. 

And  looking  at  her,  Donagh  forgot  there  was  any 
other  in  all  the  world  save  this  woman  and  himself 
— so  overcome  was  he  with  worship  of  her  beauty. 
Mad  love  flamed  up  in  his  soul  for  her.  He  bent 
over  the  side  of  the  tomb  and  drank  in  all  the 
marvellous  loveliness  of  her  sleeping  face,  oblivious 
of  death,  whose  she  had  been  so  long. 

So  she  drew  him  down  and  nearer,  till  at  last  he 
touched  her  lips  with  his.  And  so  the  tale  goes  that 
at  that  contact  her  white  lids  lifted,  and  her  eyes, 
with  a  blueness  that  was  green,  looked  into  his,  and 
she  smiled  as  if  at  a  beloved  and  familiar  touch. 

Then  Donagh  thrust  his  arms  down  to  lift  her, 
and  overturned  the  mystic  lamp,  and  as  it  went  out 

219 


The  Measure  of  Life 


the  air  suddenly  darkened,  a  great  wind  came  through 
the  warm  night,  and  he  fell  in  the  ploughed  earth 
beside  the  sarcophagus. 

In  the  morning  they  found  him  there,  and  within 
the  tomb,  only  dust  and  the  whiff  of  a  strange  per- 
fume, a  few  blackened  silver  ornaments,  a  few  rough 
gems  set  in  wrought  gold,  and  a  lamp,  mysteriously 
warm,  as  if  it  had  lately  been  alight. 

Donagh  was  never  the  same.  Lonely  he  lived 
on  the  memory  of  that  sight,  seen  in  the  summer 
gloaming.  Lonely  he  died,  remembering  it  still  with 
rapturous  love. 

This  old  story  I  recalled  but  a  few  days  since, 
when  a  name  caught  my  eye  in  the  British  Museum. 
It  is  on  an  Etruscan  sarcophagus.  Long  as  it  is 
since  I  heard  it,  I  remembered  at  once — Selanti. 

She  lies  on  the  lid,  as  she  was  last  in  life,  two 
hundred  years  before  Christ  came.  She  is  reclining 
on  her  elbow,  mirror  in  hand,  as  if  she  had  but  looked 
up  from  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty  to  meet 
your  gaze. 

She  is  past  her  first  youth,  this  Selanti,  but 
opulently  beautiful  still.  Her  straight  features, 
delicately  pure,  her  eyes  long  and  subtle  ;  her  golden 
hair  parted  on  the  forehead,  and  waved  above  her 
ears.  You  can  see  the  outline,  smooth  and  lovely, 
of  her  round  neck  and  shoulders  under  the  himation 

220 


In  the  Dawn  of  Time 


she  draws  aside  to  look  at  you.  Her  earrings  of 
amber  set  in  gold,  her  necklace  of  unpolished  stones, 
the  bracelets  on  her  arms,  twisted  serpents  of  gold, 
the  rings  on  her  tapering  fingers,  exquisite  in  their 
modelling — all  go  to  proclaim  her  rank. 

She  was  a  great  lady — royal  in  station  as  in  her 
beauty.  She  wears  a  spendheon  with  yellow  edges, 
a  long  chiton  purple-edged,  fastened  with  curiously 
worked  brooches  of  gold  on  the  shoulders,  and  is 
girdled  with  yellow,  fringed  and  edged  with  scarlet. 
A  great  lady  this  Selanti.  She  looks  up  at  you  with 
a  faintly  supercilious  wonder,  a  refined  hauteur,  as 
if  vaguely  surprised  at  the  crude  age  you  live  in,  and 
at  you  in  particular.  Looking  out  of  the  vast  repose- 
fulness  of  two  centuries  before  Christ  was  born,  she 
marvels  calmly  at  the  vulgar  haste  and  clamour  of 
twenty  centuries  after  Him. 

Her  rank,  her  wealth,  her  charm,  seem  so  remotely 
afar  off  that  realization  is  hopeless.  The  spectres  of 
burnt  blooms,  raised  from  their  ashes  by  science,  seem 
not  less  unreal  than  this  woman  from  an  incompre- 
hensible past  in  the  dawn  of  time. 

Yet  she  lived,  and  was  as  tangible,  cast  as  dark  a 
shadow  in  the  sun,  as  you  or  I ;  loved  and  sorrowed 
and  died.  Only,  being  alive  in  the  youth  of  the 
world,  the  new  wine  of  youth  was  hers.  The  fresh- 
ness of  its  joys,  its  bliss,  the  passion  of  not  long 

221 


The  Measure  of  Life 


created  life,  of  the  which  impelling  delights,  vast 
loves  and  hates,  and  joys  and  sorrows  we  express 
but  a  feeble  echo,  we  are  but  vague  suggestions — 
visionary  efforts  at  the  recollection  of  a  primal 
strength  and  vigour  that  she  knew.  What  life  that 
must  have  been !  How  full  and  beautiful,  and  yet 
serene.  Selanti  looks  as  if  she  had  lived  it  to  the 
uttermost.  Now  look  below  her. 

On  the  edge  of  the  sarcophagus  are  the  trifling 
accessories  to  her  beauty — mirror,  strigil,  situal,  and 
within 

A  handful  of  delicate  bones,  the  colour  of  old 
ivory. 

Selanti  of  the  low  Irish  shore,  on  whom  Donagh 
looked  in  the  charmed  dusk,  and  lost  his  soul  in  the 
meshes  of  her  golden  hair,  resolved  into  less  than  this. 
Across  the  ages  it  is  the  same — had  they  died  but 
yesterday  the  gulf  is  no  less  wide  that  rolls  between 
death  and  life.  These  two  women  had  the  same 
name.  One  was  buried  on  the  sun-parched  plains 
of  Italy;  the  other  by  the  complaining,  murmuring 
Western  sea.  Yet  both  are  within  the  sound  of 
passing  feet  and  surrounded  by  the  tide  of  human 
life,  and  both  belonged  to  a  civilization  which  had  a 
secret  that  is  lost  to  us. 

What  they  were,  that  ancient  race  that  started 
from  the  land  where  burning  Sappho  loved  and 

222 


In  the  Dawn  of  Time 


sung  and  died,  no  man  can  ever  know.  By  whatever 
names  they  disguised  themselves — they  are  written 
always  in  history  as  gifted  with  strange  knowledge, 
beautiful,  milk-skinned,  golden-haired,  blue-eyed. 
Masters  of  men — a  race  of  wandering  princes  whom 
none  could  conquer.  And  wherever  they  have  been 
there  is  always  this  tale  of  an  opened  tomb,  wherein 
lies  a  woman,  wondrously  beautiful,  with  a  lamp 
burning  mystically  at  her  feet  to  light  the  silence 
and  dark  of  her  eternal  slumbering. 


223 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  FOUR 
WINDS 

T\T ANY  tales  have  I  heard  of  that  strange  pre- 
•*••*•  vision  called  second  sight,  the  vision  that 
sees  through  the  stone  wall  of  the  present,  beyond  to 
the  future,  and  looks  upon  what  is  to  come.  Strange 
things,  and  terrible,  are  told  of  that  gift ;  but  never 
so  beautiful  an  experience  as  that  of  Conal  the 
Weaver,  who  heard  Mass  in  the  Church  of  the  Four 
Winds,  and  was  given  the  Sacrament  by  the  side  of 
his  drowned  son,  Shan  of  the  Yellow  locks. 

Brigid  told  me  that  story  at  a  time  when  I  but 
dimly  grasped  all  its  mystical  holiness  ;  and  later, 
when  I  was  a  woman  grown,  and  with  the  shadow 
of  a  great  sorrow  over  me,  Conal  told  me  the  story 
himself. 

It  was  a  wild  evening  in  March,  and  I  sat  on  the 
low  bench  in  the  wide  ingle-nook,  looking  through 
the  little  heart-shaped  opening  in  the  chimney  wall, 
and  out  through  the  half-door  that  hung  always  open 
to  the  hands  of  the  passer-by. 

It  was  a  high,  cold,  roaring  wind,  that  had  swept 
224 


The  Church  of  the  Four  Winds 

the  sky  of  all  save  some  thin  fragments  of  scarlet 
cloud,  scattered  like  fine  haze,  on  a  dome  of  steely 
blue.  Framed  in  the  little  opening  was  the  narrow 
path  where  the  ranunculus  was  putting  forth  its 
dusty  blooms,  and  the  top  of  the  gate,  beside  which 
the  whitethorn  stood  in  its  veil  of  snow,  as  if  it  were 
a  vestal  maid  upholding  the  thin  sickle  of  the  new 
moon. 

The  heaped-up  fire  of  peat  smouldered  rosily  on 
the  hearth,  and  with  every  puff  of  air  down  the 
chimney  an  almost  impalpable  cloud  of  white  ash 
was  lifted  off  the  hot  clods  and  left  on  my  black  dress, 
where  it  fluttered  as  if  endowed  by  the  wind  with  life 
and  wings. 

Conal  sat  facing  the  fire  in  his  beehive  chair  of 
plaited  straw,  the  leaping  flame  now  showing  his  face, 
fair  as  one  of  the  Crois  na-Aingeal  to  whom  we  pray, 
and  now  illuminating  it  with  the  vast  ineffable  age  of 
one  who  has  known  all  love  and  .suffering  and  loss. 
Love,  and  suffering,  and  loss  ;  I  but  guessed  at  these 
then — what  time  I  only  was  aware  of  his  deep  tran- 
quillity of  soul,  his  calmness  and  strength,  and  a 
mighty  will  that  was  all  tenderness  and  pity.  So 
that  the  suffering  and  helpless  turned  to  him  involun- 
tarily for  comfort  and  sympathy,  as  the  weak  ever 
turn  to  the  strong. 

"  Sorrow  not  for  the  dead,  agra,"  he  said,  softly, 
225  Q 


The  Measure  of  Life 


and  through  his  words  came  the  sounds  of  the  shingle 
dragging  down  the  shore  of  the  dark  lough  far 
below. 

Conal  heard  it  with  the  ear  of  his  mind,  as  I 
heard  it  with  mortal  ear.  I  think  that  sound  must 
have  been  with  him  always,  as  the  dark  waters  were 
ever  before  his  eye. 

"  The  wind  blows  high,"  he  went  on,  in  that 
dreamy  voice  which  seemed  to  me  more  like  the 
voice  of  thought  than  anything  I  have  ever  heard. 
"The  wind  is  high.  The  waves  will  be  carrying 
many  a  heart  on  their  flow  over  the  wild  sea  of 
Moyle.  Can  you  hear  the  black  Bann  battering  on 
the  ramparts  of  Coleraine  ?  Aye,  many  a  soul  will 
go  up  this  night  on  the  Four  Winds  to  its  last 
sacrament." 

"  What  then  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Is  there  a  sacrament 
for  the  dead  ?  " 

"  There  are  no  dead,"  responded  Conal,  clasping 
his  transparent  hands  over  the  old  calf-bound  folio 
he  had  been  reading.  "No  dead.  Even  when  we 
have  done  with  the  gross  earthly  garment  which 
clothes  us  it  does  not  die ;  it  is  imperishable  as  the 
soul  itself.  Therefore,  why  mourn  ?  If  change  is 
death,  then  we  die  day  by  day,  for  the  garment  of 
flesh  is  rent  and  torn  and  soiled  even  while  it  is 
worn,  so  that  it  changes  beyond  recognition.  When 

226 


The  Church  of  the  Four  Winds 

it  is  entirely  cast  aside  the  fine  essence  which  made 
use  of  it  has  no  longer  that  need. 

"  Yet  I  too  once  loved  the  garment,  for  the  sake 
of  the  wearer,  and  loved  it  beyond  all  bounds,  so 
that  when  sudden  destruction  fell  upon  it,  my  agony 
burst  through  the  bonds  of  being,  and  I  became  as 
one  of  those  who  have  passed  on. 

"  I  will  tell  you  of  that  day,  asthore,  and  the 
thing  that  befell  me  on  it.  It  may  have  been  twenty 
years  ago,  it  may  have  been  less.  How  can  I  tell, 
who  have  forgotten  the  flight  of  time,  and  live  only 
in  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  It  was  on  an  April 
morn,  the  second  of  the  month,  and  it  broke  warm 
and  sweet  as  the  kiss  of  a  young  girl,  full  of  the 
singing  of  birds  and  the  scent  of  thorn. 

"  A  beautiful  morn,  full  of  the  music  of  life — it 
brought  me  to  an  eve  wherein  I  learned  the  know- 
ledge of  the  impotence  of  Death ;  yet  it  seemed  to 
me  on  it,  as  I  watched  my  best-loved  and  youngest 
son  go  down  with  his  nets  to  the  dark  water,  that  I 
desired  no  better  gift  from  God  than  the  present,  in 
which  I  knew  and  had  him,  in  all  the  flush  of  his 
youth  and  manly  beauty. 

"On  that  morn  I  clung  to  the  sight  of  him, 
following  his  steps  long  after  he  had  passed  out  of 
sight,  in  my  mind  going  on  beside  him  to  the 
landing-stage,  with  the  children  running  after  his 

227 


The  Measure  of  Life 


heels  and  the  old  women  calling  a  blessing  on  his 
feet — for  old  and  young  love  those  who  are  early 
taken  away.  Alas!  that  I  did  not  see  that  the 
sooner ! 

"  And  long  after  his  boat  had  gone  round  Coney 
Island  towards  Antrim,  I  stood  looking  over  the 
shining  sea  of  silvery  water,  wondering  at  the 
strangeness  of  it,  that  was  like  a  white  sun  under 
the  wave.  And  yet  in  my  mind  that  was  no 
imagining  the  homeward  set  of  his  feet,  or  the 
warm  clasp  of  his  hand ;  but  only  void,  beyond 
which  I  could  not  go. 

"  I  was  restless  all  the  morn,  could  not  work  nor 
yet  read  in  my  books,  and  there  was  no  thought  or 
song  on  the  end  of  the  crow-quill,  only  dark  blots 
that  stained  the  page  like  tears  of  night. 

"  It  was,  maybe,  high  noon  that  the  wind  came— 
suddenly,  without  warning,  out  of  a  pale  clear  sky. 
High  and  very  cold — I  saw  it  coming  across  the 
lough,  blotting  out  the  light  and  warmth,  ruffling  up 
the  water  into  a  surge  of  white-capped  waves  that 
sprang  high  round  the  shores  of  the  islands  and 
leaped  on  the  wood-strewn  shore  like  spent  wolves. 

"Long  I  stood  on  my  threshold  watching  that 
sight.  Years  it  seemed  to  me,  who  only  measured 
time  by  the  length  of  my  own  immeasurable  agony  ; 
for  when  I  looked  first  I  had  seen  the  sun  on  the 

228 


The  Church  of  the  Four  Winds 

white  sails  of  the  fishing-boats,  and  when  the  wind 
had  reached  the  shore  they  were  gone.  Mavrone, 
my  sorrow !  Like  candles  blown  out  by  the  blast. 

"  And  it  was  at  that  moment  I  heard  my  son  call. 
1  Father,  father ! '  came  the  voice — not  in  terror  or 
pain,  but  as  if  he  stood  out  in  the  garden  among  his 
flowers,  or  leaned  on  the  wall  below  the  thatch  by 
the  bush  of  sweetbriar  there.  Oh,  the  hearing  of  it ! 
For  I  knew  !  I  knew  !  and  my  soul  was  full  of  the 
odour  of  death,  and  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth 
falling  on  the  coffin-lid. 

"  Still  I  stood  there  in  my  door,  not  heeding  the 
things  my  eyes  saw,  not  noticing  much  the  turf-stacks 
sailing  away  off  the  bog-lands  ;  nor  feeling  pity  in 
my  heart,  when  William  Fearon,  who  was  ploughing 
in  his  field,  came  down  with  his  two  horses,  the 
handles  of  the  plough  yet  in  his  strong  hands,  and 
lay  bleeding  across  the  road  from  me. 

"  I  saw  William's  house  lifted  off  its  foundations 
and  cast  into  the  lough,  and  though  I  knew  Ellen 
Fearon  and  her  new-born  child  were  in  it,  I  could 
only  think  of  Shan,  my  son,  with  the  wild  lough 
waters  foaming  over  his  yellow  head,  and  his  eyes 
under  the  wave,  unseeing  and  blue. 

"  It  was  not  till  the  steeple  of  Columb  Kil,  that 
had  over-looked  the  bog  for  as  many  centuries  as 
the  saints  had  years,  went  slithering,  wavering  over 

229 


The  Measure  of  Life 


on  the  cottage  roofs  of  Drumcree,  that  I  came  to 
consciousness  again,  and  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
bitter  anguish  of  death,  for  death  had  taken  my  all. 

"I  feared  the  lough  no  longer,  nor  the  wild 
roaring  of  the  tempest,  nor  the  fall  of  brick  or  stone, 
but  rushed  headlong  to  where  I  felt  Ellen  must  be 
lying  with  her  child,  and  brought  them  out  into  the 
cold  roar  of  the  hurricane,  crushed,  maybe,  and 
numb,  but  alive  ;  and  I  lifted  the  child  to  my  heart 
to  see  if  it  was  yet  living,  when  I  heard  once  more 
my  Shan's  voice  calling — not  with  calmness  now,  but 
haste  in  its  tone,  and  urgency — '  Father,  dear ! 
father ! ' 

"  I  turned  at  that,  and,  with  the  child  hugged  in 
my  coat,  I  went  out  into  the  roar  of  the  flying 
tempest ;  and  suddenly  darkness  was  all  around  me, 
darkness  and  rain  ;  and  only  the  voice  through  it  all 
to  direct  my  steps. 

"Then  it  came  to  me  that  I  was  being  hurried 
for  something  of  great  moment  to  my  son,  and  at  the 
thought  once  more  I  was  filled  with  the  terrible 
throes  of  mortal  anguish — the  loss,  the  poignant 
misery,  the  awful  sense  of  my  own  weak  impotence 
filled  me  so  that  I  swayed  on  my  feet,  while  still  the 
voice  called  me  on,  guiding,  exhorting,  caressing  me. 
And  he  dead ! 

"  The  misery  of  the  moment  had  burst  the  doors 
230 


The  Church  of  the  Four  Winds 

of  my  heart  asunder,  and  put  me  outside  the  pale 
of  the  living.  I  was  no  longer  in  the  world,  but 
among  the  disembodied — though  I  knew  it  not  at 
that  time. 

"  Long,  long  hours,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  pressed  on 
across  bog  and  mountain,  till  I  came  at  last  to  a 
little  church  set  on  a  narrow  plain  on  a  mountain 
over  the  sea,  for  the  sound  of  raging  waters  came 
up  to  it  on  all  sides,  and  the  tempest  fled  round  it  in 
tumultuous  outcry,  now  loudly  and  now  low. 

"  I  went  up  four  wide  white  marble  steps,  bleeding 
my  heart's  blood  on  every  step,  and,  with  the  great 
north-east  wind  behind  me,  entered  the  church. 

"  It  was  full  of  a  white  light,  that  streamed  from 
the  high  altar,  and  out  through  its  four  wide-set-open 
doors. 

"And  I  was  alone  in  that  church,  I  thought  at 
first,  because  I  could  see  no  one,  and  at  first  I 
thought  there  was  silence  in  it,  so  fair  and  white  was 
it,  and  with  the  incense  filtering  faint  and  blue  down 
the  narrow  aisle. 

"  But  presently  I  knew  that  was  not  silence  but 
perfect  harmony,  for  in  it  all  the  Four  Great  Winds 
were  singing  in  high  sweet  voices  that  filled  heaven 
and  earth,  while  in  between  were  smaller  voices  of  an 
innumerable  choir  singing  the  Mass — and  it  was  the 
'  O  Salutaris.' 

231 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  I  knelt  on  the  marble  floor  and  listened,  and 
knew  I  had  outstepped  the  bounds  allotted  to 
mortality,  and  was  in  one  of  the  holy  mysteries,  but 
I  held  the  little  new-christened  child  to  my  heart  and 
hearkened  to  the  winds  and  the  waters  of  the  earth 
singing  of  the  Great  Sacrifice,  articulate  and  clear. 

"  Yet  in  the  agony  of  my  broken  heart  I  was  only 
conscious  of  one  prayer :  my  son,  my  son,  who  knelt 
beside  me  invisible.  Could  I  but  see  his  face  once 
more ! 

"Yet  I  did  not  say  to  the  Priest  at  the  altar, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  the  Christ,  our  Master,  that  I 
would  be  content  or  reconciled  to  His  will.  Only 
my  whole  being  resolved  itself  into  that  one  prayer — 
to  see  the  face  of  my  beloved  once  again.  That 
church  was  filled  with  longings  for  the  dead.  Out 
from  the  rain  and  darkness  the  Four  Winds  swept 
in  through  the  aisles,  bringing  the  souls  of  those  gone 
out  in  the  waves.  I  heard  them  pass  me  by,  with 
the  water  dripping  from  their  garments — could  per- 
ceive the  keen  sweet  smell  of  the  sea,  the  musky 
odour  of  great  rivers,  and  the  leafy  dampness  of 
inland  lakes.  Invisible  they  pressed  by  me,  invisible 
Shan  knelt  by  my  side — I  was  the  only  living  soul 
in  all  the  throng  of  the  dead. 

"Suddenly  the  voices  ceased,  and  the  sacring- 
bell  rang  out,  and  as  each  stroke  smote  on  the 

232 


The  Church  of  the  Four  Winds 

hollow  metal  a  third  of  my  grief  fell  away  from  me, 
and  left  only  a  kind  of  arid  waiting  and  expectation. 
I  knew  I  was  to  see  Shan,  but  how  I  could  not  tell. 
'Yet,'  thought  I,  '  be  it  as  it  will ;  if  I  can  only  look 
on  him  again.'  On  the  third  stroke  of  the  bell  the 
Priest  turned  at  the  altar  and,  stooping  down,  in  a 
refulgent  haze  of  glory,  looked  at  me  with  sweet, 
piercing,  awful  eyes — eyes  that  were  yet  so  com- 
passionate and  tender  and  comforting  that  they  drew 
me  up  to  the  narrow  rail.  I  knelt  down,  with  the 
white  cloth  uplifted  in  my  hands.  On  the  one  side 
of  me  at  that  holy  rite  was  my  dead  son,  on  the 
other  was  one  whom  I  had  known  as  my  enemy, 
and  in  peace  we  were  together.  I,  the  living,  between 
the  dead  at  the  Communion  of  the  Drowned. 

"  And  as  I  partook  of  that  sacred  feast  my  eyes 
opened,  and  I  saw  all  the  great  company  of  souls 
that  had  gone  out  in  the  whirlwind  awaiting  their 
turn,  and  my  eyes  met  those  of  my  son,  and  all  my 
sorrow  dissolved  and  melted  away,  for  I  saw  there  is 
no  death — only  change. 

"  All  the  Winds  sang  the  '  Gloria '  while  I  looked, 
and  I  saw  the  Winds — four  tall  angels,  standing 
together,  with  garments  strained  as  if  they  were 
flying,  and  hair  like  the  sun,  streaming  far  behind 
them  into  vague  darkness,  singing  in  rapt  harmony. 

"And  Shan  smiled  on  me,  with  the  light  of 
233 


The  Measure  of  Life 


immortality  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  a  three-gemmed 
crown  on  his  yellow  head.  And  I  knew  why  he  had 
been  taken  out  on  the  wind,  and  why  my  love  for 
him  was  so  great. 

"  All  things  came  to  my  knowledge ;  I  knew 
them  all — I  saw  life  imperishable,  youth  everlasting, 
and  a  future  so  joyful  that  the  woeful  souls  of  the 
drowned,  clinging  faint  and  vapoury  to  the  Master's 
table,  gained  form  and  shape  at  the  light  from  its 
borders. 

" '  Gloria !  gloria  !  gloria ! '  I  sank  into  the  Divine 
sweetness,  the  vast  rapture  of  that  song,  and  was  filled 
with  the  wisdom  of  content.  Child,  you  once  asked 
me  if  Christ  walks  the  hills  of  earth,  and  I  could 
give  you  no  reply,  for  there  are  some  questions  to 
which  one  may  give  no  answer,  and  so  do  not  ask 
me  how  I,  being  alive  and  wearing  the  garment  of 
flesh,  came  to  be  in  the  Church  of  the  Four  Winds, 
where  only  the  dead  can  go.  But  I  will  tell  you  this  : 
though  there  be  no  death,  Love  is  omnipotent  and  all- 
powerful  ;  and  whether  it  be  by  air  or  earth,  by  fire 
or  water,  that  we  go,  yet  is  Love  certain.  And  for 
those  who  know  are  the  throne  and  the  blossoming 
rod  and  the  three-gemmed  crown  waiting.  And  to 
such  to  be  prisoned  in  the  body  is  the  sole  and 
only  ill." 


234 


THE   QUEST  OF  LORNACH  OF 
BANBA 


told  me  this  old  tale  on  an  Easter  morn- 
ing,  walking  among  the  daffodils  and  snow- 
drops, while  the  spring  airs  blew  full  of  white  violet 
off  the  rath  of  Darra  : 

It  will  be  a  long  while  since  this  thing  happened 
(said  he),  an'  few  will  be  caring  to  hear  of  it  now,  for 
beauty  of  ear  may  change,  as  beauty  of  face,  and 
what  we  love  to-day  is  to-morrow  distasteful.  But  to 
you  and  to  me  this  will  be  ever  beautiful  ;  for  it  is 
true.  There  was  in  Banba  at  the  beginning,  as  often 
I  have  told  you,  a  race  sprung  from  the  angels  —  the 
Tuatha  de  Danan.  That  race  worshipped  God  in 
the  sun,  and  they  knew  all  things  that  are  permitted. 
And  it  was  one  of  them,  an  ancient  king,  went  forth 
to  meet  his  enemy  on  the  battlefield  —  and  the  leader 
of  these  ;  the  dark  little  people  flung  a  brain-ball,  and 
it  lodged  between  the  king's  brows,  and  took  away 
the  sight  of  his  eyes. 

So  that  old  Pagan  king  sat  in  the  darkness  many 
a  year,  but  the  knowledge  in  him  was  like  an  eye 

235 


The  Measure  of  Life 


that  saw  all  things  over  the  world.  Now,  from  the 
beginning  that  race  had  looked  to  the  coming  of  the 
Lord,  longing  and  sighing  for  it — hoping  at  that  day 
they  might  at  last  seek  the  heaven  they  had  lost  at 
the  Flood. 

That  old  Pagan  king  sat  in  bodily  darkness,  with 
the  sound  of  the  running  wave  in  his  ear,  and  the 
song  of  the  lark  through  it  all,  his  crown  on  his  head, 
his  great  two-edged  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his  shield 
at  Tiis  side,  searching  the  world  by  that  light  within 
him. 

They  loved  each  other,  this  race,  and  this  king's 
son  loved  him  with  a  deep  and  wonderful  love,  for  he 
was  friend  as  well  as  father.  Thick  was  the  bond 
between  them — for  it  was  the  bond  of  the  spirit.  So 
that  when,  one  morning  in  winter,  while  the  snow  lay 
thick  and  the  flocks  crept  nigh  to  each  other  in  the 
pens  because  of  the  bitter  cold,  Lornach,  the  king's 
son,  hearing  his  father's  sword  clang  on  his  shining 
shield,  ran  out  to  him  and  found  him  erect,  holding 
on  to  the  arms  of  his  throne. 

The  brain-ball  had  burst  forth  from  his  brain 
through  excess  of  great  joy,  and  the  life  was  ebbing 
out  of  him  quickly. 

And  the  joy  of  that  old  king  was  as  the  joy  of 
some  captive  boy  who  is  put  to  the  torture  and 
presently  opens  his  eyes  on  Paradise  the  Blest. 

236 


The  Quest  of  Lornach  of  Banba 

"  My  son  !  my  son  ! "  cried  he.  "  He  that  is  to 
save  the  world  is  born — I  have  seen  Him." 

And  with  that  he  died. 

Then  was  Lornach  Bawn  king  over  Banba,  and 
ruled  its  green  sweet  plains  and  sunny  mountains  and 
wide  rolling  rivers  sparkling  to  the  sea.  But  no 
happiness  had  Lornach  in  his  kingdom,  for  his  mind 
dwelt  always  on  that  Mystery  of  which  his  father's 
dying  lips  had  spoken,  and  great  longing  filled  him 
to  go  forth  and  seek  the  infant  Redeemer. 

At  last  he  called  together  the  priests  and  priestesses 
of  the  Sun,  and  spoke  to  them  in  Tara,  the  crown  on 
his  head  and  his  father's  great  two-edged  sword  in  his 
right  hand.  Lovely  was  Lornach  of  the  Yellow  Hair  : 
white  and  tall  and  very  strong,  and  no  maiden  ever 
smiled  on  him  but  gave  him  great  trust,  as  did  the 
mothers  of  his  people,  for  his  heart  was  pure.  And 
there  he  told  them  all  that  he  had  no  rest,  for  that 
his  soul  pined  eternally  to  see  the  Lord  ;  so  he  had 
built  him  a  tall  ship,  and  laden  her  with  gold  and 
rich  gems  and  fine  linen,  and  would  forth  to  seek  the 
land  where  Christ  was  born  to  save  men. 

He  lifted  the  crown  off  his  brows  and  laid  it  on 
the  head  of  his  sister  Brigid. 

"  Do  thou  care  for  my  people  till  I  return,"  said 
he  ;  and  forthwith  the  ship  sailed  and  left  them. 

Over  many  strange  seas,  through  many  strange 
237 


The  Measure  of  Life 


lands,  wandered  Lornach  the  king,  and  in  each  land 
he  saw  great  oppressions  and  much  misery,  and,  great 
as  was  the  treasure  he  had  bought,  it  dwindled  and 
went,  till  at  length  there  was  only  remaining  that 
which  he  had  brought  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 
One  day  he  saw  a  husband  being  carried  to  slavery 
from  his  wife  and  infant  son,  and,  taking  counsel  with 
his  foster-brother,  Hugh  of  the  Hostages,  he  ransomed 
that  captive  with  a  portion  of  the  tribute  he  had 
brought  to  the  Lord.  And  also  again  he  brought 
out  of  prison  the  son  of  an  old  man  and  his  wife ;  and 
paid  for  the  care  of  a  widow  and  her  children — these 
things  again  and  again,  till  at  last  they  came  to 
Palestine,  and  there  on  his  landing  they  found  at  the 
wayside  a  dead  man,  naked.  And  him  did  Lornach 
the  king  of  Banba,  with  a  grieving  heart,  wrap  about 
in  the  fine  linen,  fair  as  snow,  that  he  had  carried  so 
far  for  Christ  the  King  of  Heaven.  Then  empty  they 
went  on  to  Jerusalem,  Lornach  and  Hugh  his  foster* 
brother,  having  buried  the  man  and  left  him  in  peace. 
They  came  to  Jerusalem  in  the  nightfall,  and  no 
place  would  take  them  in.  For  they  were  Pagans, 
and  it  was  the  Passover  of  the  Jews.  Great  crowds 
had  come  up  to  it,  and  they  wandered  about  that 
city  all  night,  thinking  strange  thoughts.  In  the 
morning,  still  fasting,  they  were  caught  among  the 
multitude,  and  carried  out  beyond  the  city  to  a  hill 

238 


The  Quest  of  Lornach  of  Banba 

overlooking  its  walls.  And  there  the  crowd  set  up  a 
cross,  between  two  other  crosses,  and  hung  on  it  a 
God-like  form.  When  Lornach  saw  that  he  fought 
his  way,  little  by  little,  to  the  inner  edge  of  the  great 
crowd,  and  at  last  about  high  noon  he  saw  the  face  he 
had  come  so  far  to  see — and  knew  it  was  the  Lord. 

And  madness  came  upon  him,  so  that  he  fell 
upon  his  face,  and  lay  for  a  time  like  one  dead.  Then 
he  rose,  and  as  he  came  to  his  feet  his  eyes  were  met 
by  the  eyes  of  Him  who  hung  there  on  the  cross — 
and  the  madness  came  upon  him  again,  so  that  he 
drew  the  great  sword  and  rushed  about  the  crowd  to 
slay  them.  And  at  that  moment  came  a  voice  which 
moved  the  foundations  of  the  world,  so  that  they 
came  together  at  the  sound  of  it.  And  darkness 
covered  all  things.  When  it  lifted,  lo  !  Lornach  was 
sitting  on  his  throne  in  the  hall  of  Tara,  with  Hugh 
his  foster-brother  at  his  feet,  and  his  sister  Brigid 
bending  over  him. 

Strange  was  that  thing — and  stranger  the  tale  he 
told  to  Banba.  But  the  people  who  had  waited  so 
long  knew  their  salvation  had  come,  so  that  they 
were  a  Christian  folk  long  before  the  nations  of  the 
earth  had  heard  Christ's  name. 

But  Lornach  raged  and  grieved  in  his  heart,  and 
his  soul  would  not  be  still  because  of  those  who  had 
killed  the  Christ.  And  one  night  when  he  could  not 

239 


The  Measure  of  Life 


sleep  he  walked  above  the  sea,  in  the  oak  wood  of 
Darra,  weeping  within  him,  though  no  tears  were  on 
his  cheek,  and  reproaching  himself  bitterly  with  great 
anguish  that  he  had  squandered  the  treasure  of  tribute 
he  was  taking  to  his  Master. 

And  suddenly  One  walked  beside  him  in  the 
darkness,  and  His  garments  were  like  the  starshine 
on  a  summer  eve.  Then  Lornach  fell  on  his  knees, 
looking  upwards  with  worship. 

"  Lornach !  "  said  the  Voice  of  Love,  "  why  wilt 
thou  not  be  at  ease  ?  See,  I  am  not  dead." 

Then  said  Lornach,  "  Lord,  I  knew  they  could  not 
slay  Thee — that  evil,  black-browed  folk.  But  my 
heart  is  sore  within  me  that  I  had  spent  all  on  others 
of  that  I  brought  so  far  for  Thee " 

Then  it  seemed  suddenly  to  the  king's  eyes  as  if 
the  Vision  wore  on  Him  all  those  rich  gems  and  fine 
golden  work  that  he  had  sold  to  ransom  poverty  and 
sickness  and  imprisonment.  And  said  the  Vision  : 

"  Lornach,  remember  this — that  even  as  ye  did  it 
to  one  of  them,  ye  did  it  unto  Me.  Farewell  till  that 
day  when  ye  are  summoned  to  Me." 

And  Lornach  went  back  to  his  bed  and  slept,  and 
woke,  and  was  content,  and  so  in  that  holy  I  content 
he  lived  till  his  death-day  dawned  and  he  went  out  to 
find  his  Lord  again. 

This  will  be  an  old  story,  little  girl  of  my  heart. 
240 


The  Quest  of  Lornach  of  Banba 

But  old  things  are  full  of  wisdom.  Many  go  afar  into 
strange  lands  and  spend  all  they  would  fain  give  to 
God  on  their  common  kind,  thinking  at  the  last  they 
have  squandered  it,  till  He  tells  them  it  has  been 
given,  first  and  last,  to  Him. 


241 


THE   FIELD   OF   THE   GOLDEN 
FLOWERS 

T  N  springtime  the  boreen  over  Mullaghmore  Moss 
•*•  is  like  a  by-road  through  Paradise.  It  is  a  wide, 
long  stretch  of  bog,  with  not  many  cuttings  in  it, 
so  that  the  brown  bog  waters  show  here  and  there 
grown  thick  with  meadow-sweet  and  flags  and  reeds, 
and  over-covered  with  white  and  golden  water-lilies, 
the  broad  leaves  faintly  crimson  under  the  tender 
green. 

And  a  little  brawling  river  runs  through  it,  widen- 
ing now  and  again  into  still  pools,  where  it  seems  to 
meditate  in  the  shadow  of  whin  and  bracken  and 
whitethorn  before  pouring  its  amber  waters  into  the 
welcoming  sea.  The  road  is,  as  I  said,  just  a 
boreen,  all  covered  over  with  that  curiously  soft, 
short,  vividly  green  grass  that  is  nowhere  to  be  seen 
in  all  the  world  save  on  the  boglands  of  Erin. 

I  wish  I  could  remember  all  the  sweet,  fragile, 
lovely  things  that  grow  along  that  road — all  the 
scarlet  and  blue  and  yellow  flowers,  infinitesimally 
small,  so  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  multitude  of  them 
the  eye  might  pass  their  exquisite  wonder  by. 

242 


The  Field  of  the  Golden  Flowers 

But  I  recall  the  wild  strawberry,  later  covered 
with  ruby  fruit,  sweeter  than  nectar,  more  fragrant 
than  the  frangipani  flowers,  and  the  tiny  blossom 
that,  because  of  its  heavenly  blueness,  the  Irish 
people  call  "  Our  Lady's  eyes."  The  primroses  and 
wild  violets,  purple  and  crimson  orchis,  lady's  slipper 
and  pimpernel,  and  the  close-growing  wild  thyme 
beloved  of  the  wandering  bee,  and  thickets  of  tall 
meadow-sweet,  of  scarlet-blossomed  sorrel,  and 
slender-stalked  harebell,  swinging  like  fairy  chimes 
in  the  wind — all  these  and  those  others  whose  names 
were  never  known  to  me. 

All  along  that  way  at  intervals  grew  clumps  of 
blackthorn  and  sloe,  so  that  in  the  early  spring  it 
seemed  banked  by  mounds  of  fragrant  snow ;  later, 
when  these  were  gone,  it  was  painted  yellow  with 
gorse,  where  the  Good  People's  shoemaker  plied  his 
trade  in  the  silence.  Many  a  time  and  oft  have  I  sat 
in  the  sun  and  hearkened  to  the  tip-tap,  tip-tap  of 
his  tiny  hammer. 

As  for  the  level  bog  itself,  no  words  could  paint 
its  glory  or  give  rendering  of  its  scents  and  sounds. 
The  skylarks  nested  there,  among  the  reeds  and  flags 
and  tall  grass  tussocks,  in  their  thousands ;  the  snipe 
drummed,  the  curlew  built,  the  crane  talked  with 
wild  duck  and  plover.  The  heather  bloomed  with 
the  whins  and  gorse,  hawthorn  and  blackthorn  and 

243 


The  Measure  of  Life 


blackberries.  It  was  a  children's  paradise,  and  there 
was  no  child  to  revel  in  its  glories  and  joys  save 
myself  alone. 

But  it  was  not  in  my  little  childhood  that  one 
day  I  walked  along  it  in  the  late  spring,  rejoicing 
in  its  loveliness,  conscious  that  in  my  own  heart 
there  was  a  voice  that  sang  near  the  blue  sky,  even 
as  the  skylark  did.  The  bog  ran  upwards  to  the 
feet  of  two  tall  sloping  mountains  where  the  clouds 
haunted  the  purple  and  gold  of  heather  and  gorse, 
their  tall  tops  hidden  by  a  whirling  haze  of  white. 
It  had  been  one  of  my  childhood's  fancies  that  those 
aspiring  peaks  reached  to  heaven,  and  could  I  but 
climb  there  I  could  look  within.  I  was  minded  on 
this  glad  morning  whereof  I  write  to  achieve  my 
childish  longing  and  climb  to  the  very  summit  of 
the  taller  mountain,  when  I  heard  a  soft  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  grass  behind  me,  and  saw  Conal 
coming,  walking  by  his  low  cart,  while  the  old  grey 
ass  plodded  along,  with  the  finished  web  carefully 
wrapped  in  an  enormous  gay  handkerchief  reposing 
among  the  hay  behind  him. 

"  We  can  go  together,"  said  I,  "  as  far  as  you  will 
let  me." 

And  said  Conal,  "  An'  why  not  then  ?  " 

The  old  grey  ass  plodded  silently  along  the 
grassy  boreen ;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  glad 

244 


The  Field  of  the  Golden  Flowers 

rushing  of  the  wind,  the  song  of  the  lark,  and  the 
soft  complaining  of  the  worn  wheels.  A  long  white 
cloud  came  over  the  mountain  feet  and  turned  all 
the  bog  waters  to  ivory  black,  like  mirrors  reflecting 
the  charm  and  beauty  of  the  wild  day.  We  did  not 
talk  much,  Conal  the  Weaver  and  I,  for  he  was 
thinking  deep,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  white  head 
bent.  I  wondered,  as  he  smiled,  what  thoughts  they 
were  he  had  woven  into  the  web  of  fine  linen  that 
lay  in  the  little  cart. 

Nor  had  he  asked  me  whither  I  would  be  going ; 
that  was  so  like  Conal — to  take  one  into  his  way  as 
he  went,  and  let  one  fall  out  of  it  when  one  would, 
without  question.  We  came  at  length  to  the  broken 
culvert  over  the  rushing  brook ;  all  the  beams  were 
coated  thick  with  moss,  brown  and  emerald  and  golden 
— bright  as  velvet  and  as  soft,  with  the  amber  water 
flashing  in  between,  and  the  tall  green  flags  reaching 
to  us  as  we  went  over. 

Across  the  culvert  was  a  little  farm — a  tiny,  low- 
thatched  house,  where  the  birds  built  near  to  the 
rose-clustered  windows,  in  their  little  white  frames, 
with  houseleek  blossoming  along  the  ridge  and  round 
the  chimneys,  and  a  Pyrus  japonica  trained  round 
the  wide-open,  bright-green  door. 

An  orchard  lay  on  each  side  of  it,  and  past  the 
farthest  orchard,  laden  with  April  bloom,  a  small  field 

245 


The  Measure  of  Life 


enclosed  with  a  low  stone  fence — a  little  smooth 
green  field,  in  which  the  grass  was  hidden  by  the 
growth  of  dandelion  blooms. 

The  house  was  Mary  Donnelly's — old  Mary  Don- 
nelly, whose  three  tall  sons  had  died  in  the  South 
African  war,  and  whose  daughter  had  died  in  India, 
leaving  her  a  lone  woman  with  only  one  little  grand- 
daughter of  all  her  kith  and  kin. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  golden  field, 
her  little  old  face  enclosed  in  a  snowy-white  goffered 
frill,  her  slender  shoulders  covered  with  a  crossed-over 
blue  shawl,  and  her  long  white  apron  held  open 
towards  a  small  child,  who  was  filling  it  with  the 
dandelion  flowers. 

It  was  such  a  pretty  child,  very  slight,  and  swift 
as  a  bird  on  the  wing,  with  a  short  mop  of  silken 
hair,  yellow  as  the  golden  flowers  she  gathered,  and 
a  face  all  smiles  and  sunshine.  Her  dress  was  pretty, 
too — just  a  short  smock  of  thin  white  stuff  that 
hardly  reached  to  her  rounded  knees. 

She  was  playing  with  the  old  woman,  as  irrepres- 
sibly  gay  as  a  child  could  be,  her  little  brief  peals  of 
thin  laughter  coming  past  us  on  the  wind  like 
music.  Sometimes  the  wind  would  bring  with  it  a 
burst  of  white-and-pink-tinted  petals,  showering  them 
over  the  yellow  head  and  the  white-capped  one,  and 
covering  the  flowers.  Sometimes  it  would  take  hold 

246 


The  Field  of  the  Golden  Flowers 

of  the  seeded  dandelion  globes,  standing  like  white 
fire  in  the  sun,  and  blow  them  over  the  child  in  a 
thin  cloud  ;  or,  again,  a  flight  of  little  birds  all  blown 
sideways  past  would  send  her  flying  after  them.  But 
most  of  all  she  seemed  delighted  when  the  dandelion 
down  enveloped  her  and  blew  away.  Then  she 
would  grasp  at  it  with  her  tiny  white  hands,  spring- 
ing upwards  in  the  air  and  laughing.  It  was  a  sight 
so  beautiful  that  I  could  have  watched  her  all  the 
day. 

Suddenly  she  came  with  both  hands  full  of  yellow 
flowers,  and  flung  them  over  old  Mary's  shoulders 
into  her  apron ;  and  Mary,  looking  up  with  wide, 
dreamy  eyes,  encountered  ConaPs  look,  and  mine. 

"  God  and  the  Virgin  be  with  you ! "  she  greeted 
us  tremulously. 

"God  save  you,  Mary !    How  is  it  with  all  here  ?" 

Conal  had  walked  to  the  gate  and  stood  with  the 
wind  playing  in  his  silvery  hair,  his  hat  pressed 
against  him,  as  if  he  were  in  church.  Mary  smiled 
at  him  peacefully.  "It  is  well  with  all  here,"  she 
said,  in  her  low,  level  voice.  "  As  you  will  be  seein', 
Conal,  good  neighbour," 

I  looked  across  his  shoulder,  smiling  at  her,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  the  little  field  was  overgrown  with 
flowers  of  golden  and  silver  fire — lambent,  radiant 
in  the  glorious  day,  and  she  was  some  peaceful 

247 


The  Measure  of  Life 


matured  spirit  with  a  child-angel  playing  round 
her. 

Th«  child  laughed  in  her  flight,  and  called  as  I 
stood — and  Mary's  smile  was  lovely  in  its  happy 
sweetness. 

Conal  moved  away,  and  I  with  him,  and,  looking 
back,  I  saw  the  child  like  some  winged  thing  dancing 
tiptoe  towards  the  old  woman,  laden  again  with 
flowers. 

"It is  a  pity,  Conal,"  said  I,  "that  the  children  of 
the  sea  cannot  come  so  far." 

"An'  why  will  that  be,  then  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because,"  I  replied, .laughing  at  my  own  thought, 
"  Mary's  little  granddaughter  might  well  be  mistaken 
for  one  of  the  foam-elves — she  is  so  light  on  her  bare 
feet  and  so  pretty." 

"Aye,"  said  Conal  quietly;  "some  have  souls 
like  the  running  water  an'  some  like  the  green  sea, 
and  others  have  souls  of  pure  fire — white  an'  fine — 
spirits  of  joy  an'  happiness  ;  an'  that's  what  Maureen 
ever  was —  "  He  paused  on  that,  then  spoke  again — 
"an'  will  be  ever." 

A  strange  silence  fell  between  us,  and  we  went 
on  as  far  as  the  bare  grey  stone  house,  where  Conal 
left  his  web,  without  speaking  any  word.  Then  we 
turned  and  came  homewards  together.  But  at 
the  little  churchyard  gate  the  grey  ass  came  to  a 

248 


The  Field  of  the  Golden  Flowers 

stand-still,  and  Conal,  with  bent  forefinger,  asked  me 
in.  There,  wending  a  reverent  way  between  the  green 
mounds,  we  came  to  one  where  he  knelt  down  and 
pointed  out  a  name.  I  stooped  and  read.  It  was 
a  little  grave  below  that  stone,  and  every  inch  of  it 
was  covered  thick  with  the  golden  and  silver  globes 
of  dandelion,  flower,  and  seed.  I  only  read  one  line, 
"  Maureen  O'Hara,  aged  seven."  Then  I  knew  that 
I  had  seen  a  mystery.  An  old  lonely  woman  sitting 
in  a  little  field,  watching  a  golden-haired  child  fly 
after  the  dandelion  mist. 

"  I  will  be  tellin'  you  this,  machree,"  said  Conal, 
"  because  you  will  not  have  to  be  speakin'  of  all  you 
see  to  every  one.  For  it  is  not  good  that  every  one 
should  know.  Maureen  loved  the  feoghdawn — 
many  a  time  have  I  seen  her  playin'  in  the  bawn 
with  her  old  granny,  as  we  did  to-day ;  the  flower 
or  the  seed — she  loved  them  both.  She  would  be 
makin'  garlands  of  them  for  Mary,  who  stands  in 
the  best  room  in  her  shrine,  or  tellin'  the  time  on 
them  like  the  Good  People ;  blowing  with  the  little 
pink  mouth  of  her.  Some  souls  are  joy  incarnate  an' 
holy  purity.  She  was  the  joy  an'  the  light  of  Mary's 
days  ;  so  tender,  so  pure.  How  could  God  Almighty 
say  '  No '  if  she  yearned  to  come  back  an'  comfort 
the  lone  old  woman  in  the  little  house  there  ?  Who 
knows  better  nor  the  Mother  of  our  Lord  the  ache 

249 


The  Measure  of  Life 


an'  the  bitterness  of  the  vacant  place  ?  Small  wonder 
that  they  will  be  lettin'  her  slip  out  an'  play  among 
the  feoghdawn  !  Mary  is  happy  now,  machree." 

"Very  happy,  Conal."  He  nodded  gravely,  and, 
bending  down,  smoothed  the  thick,  warm  blossoms 
with  his  hand.  "  Tis  a  good  herb — the  feoghdawn," 
he  said  dreamily ;  "  they  knew  it  well  in  the  old 
times.  The  beauty  of  it  is  good  for  the  eye,  an'  the 
birds  love  the  seed  of  it ;  of  the  leaves  it  is  good 
for  the  heart  of  man.  But  of  the  root  it  is  given 
for  man  alone  to  drink ;  an'  the  bitterness  of  it  will 
be  good  for  the  soul.  The  Old  Wisdom  knew  its 
virtues,  for  it  cleared  the  soul's  vision.  It  is  exceed- 
ingly bitter  in  the  mouth ;  but  he  who  quaffs  that 
bitter  draught  may  call  aloud,  and  the  one  he  calls 
will  say, '  Ecce  ego ! ' " 

And  as  we  passed  again  the  little  field  we  saw 
them  still  at  play.  Conal  walked  with  bare  head  by 
the  grey  ass,  and  I,  looking  in,  saw,  as  it  were,  a 
wilderness  of  flowers,  yellow  and  pure  white  fire 
standing  on  a  field  of  vert,  and  in  their  midst — two 
angel  shapes  at  play. 


250 


LIBAN   OF  THE   WAVE 

f  I  VHIS  is  an  ancient  trouble  of  my  race,  that  it  is 
•*•  akin  to  the  sea  and  those  that  dwell  in  it, 
that  we  know  no  lasting  peace  or  content,  because  we 
ever  seek  the  unattainable.  The  thing  that  is  not 
now,  but  was,  and  will  be  again,  and  is  never  for  us. 
Ours  being  the  wild  unrest,  the  tumult  and  joy,  and 
swift  rush  and  retreat  of  the  wave.  And  under  all  its 
times  of  sunshine,  its  light  and  colour  and  rejoicing, 
its  song  and  fury  and  wild  rages,  its  smiling  and 
calm,  the  ineffable  melancholy  of  boundless  know- 
ledge. The  knowledge  that  cannot  be  spoken  or 
uttered,  because  it  is  the  thought  of  the  hidden  soul, 
the  secret  vision  looking  through  Fata  Morgana  to 
the  bare  rock,  the  barren  headland,  white  with  the 
drifting  foam. 

To  many  of  us  Fiontuin  has  spoken  in  the  dusk  ; 
he  comes  with  sandals  of  deerskin  laced  with  gold, 
silent-footed  in  the  twilight,  and  speaks  strange 
things  into  the  listening  ear — beautiful  Fiontuin  who 
had  seen  the  Deluge,  who  followed  Christ,  who 
mocked  Ossian,  who  remembers  the  forgotten  secrets 
of  all  time. 

251 


The  Measure  of  Life 


This  is  a  tale  he  told  me  once  long  ago,  with  the 
murmur  of  the  ocean  in  my  ears  and  the  sound  of 
the  wild  bee  seeking  in  the  heather.  Below  Ben 
Bulbin  it  was,  where  once  Dermot  and  Grannie  fled 
together  through  the  dews,  with  Fion  hard  behind. 
A  long  time  back  that  seemed  to  me.  Grey  were 
their  beds  in  the  sunlight,  covered  with  the  rime  of 
endless  age ;  but  to  Fiontuin  but  a  little  while,  as  it 
were  but  yesterday  as  he  wandered  from  Tir-na-Oge. 

Many  men  have  loved  among  the  Deathless 
People,  the  Hidden  Race  whose  beauty  is  unforget- 
table. Fion  loved  a  princess  of  the  Shee ;  Ossian, 
his  son,  born  under  enchantment,  also  loved  an 
Immortal ;  at  the  last  he  remembered  her  kisses  as 
sweeter  than  wine,  and,  blind  and  old,  lamented  her 
loss  till  the  end. 

In  the  old  times  gone  past  men  loved  the  Im- 
mortals to  their  own  undoing;  no  lasting  happiness 
comes  of  mating  thus,  but  only  misery  to  the  one  who 
is  mortal.  The  other  must  weary  of  the  finite  life, 
the  slowly  departing  youth  and  beauty,  understand- 
ing it  not,  because  youth  and  beauty  are  theirs  for 
ever  who  cannot  die. 

And  the  beauty  of  the  Fairy  Folk  is  like  the 
beauty  of  the  sea,  terrible  and  compelling,  as  their 
love  is  changeful  as  the  tides,  now  ebbing,  now 
flowing  to  the  moon.  They  count  change  as 

252 


Liban  of  the  Wave 


faithlessness  who  have  all  the  ages  in  which  to  be. 
They  break  hearts  with  a  smile  who  cannot  compre- 
hend human  woe  or  misery,  who  cannot  suffer  or 
sorrow  or  know  regret,  as  ignorant  of  longing  as  the 
foam  on  the  running  wave. 

These  things  Fiontuin  told  me  of  with  a  laugh, 
for  he  himself,  though  living  on,  and  till  the  end,  was 
once  mortal ;  and  remembers,  though  he  has  for- 
gotten its  keenness,  the  pang  of  useless  yearning  for 
what  is  gone. 

It  was  on  a  morning  of  April,  joy  of  the  spring, 
when  Nature  is  running  over  with  happiness,  the 
rapturous  happiness  of  returning  youth.  A  great 
wind  blew  from  the  south-west,  casting  up  long  green 
billows  on  the  strand,  where  all  the  flowers  that  blow 
in  Eire  grew  to  the  verge  of  the  sea.  A  morning  in 
which  the  heart  sang,  and  age  was  forgot ;  in  which 
no  man  might  remember  aught  save  that  he  was 
alive  and  the  world  was  young  again,  with  a  blue  sky 
overhead,  where  the  wind  chased  the  little  snowy 
clouds  down  to  the  horizon  edge,  and  the  ocean  was 
purple  in  its  depths,  green  in  its  breaking,  white- 
tipped  as  with  the  feathers  of  the  wild  swan. 

So  Cuan  O'Lochain,  Chief  Bard  of  Erin,  came 
riding  along  the  shore,  and  found  there  a  fisherman 
dragging  in  his  nets  behind  his  boat,  after  being  out 
all  the  night. 

253 


The  Measure  of  Life 


"  You  will  be  having  a  great  catch,"  said  Cuan 
O'Lochain,  in  a  voice  that  was  sweet  as  the  sound  of 
wind  in  the  high  elms,  or  a  harp  played  softly  in  the 
dark  by  one  whose  heart  breaks. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  fisherman,  who  was  Bedan,  son 
of  Innle,  fisherman  of  Comgall,  of  Bennchair,  and 
the  strand  where  he  drew  his  nets  was  Ollarbha, 
"stay  and  see  what  I  may  bring  to  land,  Honey- 
Tongue  " — for  thus  the  people  called  Cuan  O'Lochain. 
Cuan  sat  still  on  his  horse,  and  Bedan  drew  in  his 
nets,  and  they  lay  high  on  the*  yellow  sands.  No 
fish  lay  entangled  in  their  meshes,  or  little  shell,  or 
drifting  brown  seaweed,  but  a  woman  whiter  than  the 
wild  swans  who  cried  overhead  on  their  flight  ocean- 
wards,  or  the  foam  on  the  running  wave,  or  the  snow 
as  it  falls  on  pear  and  plum  blossom  in  the  early 
spring.  White  to  perfection  was  every  part  of  her 
that  showed  through  the  tangle  of  her  hair,  yellow  as 
the  rag-weed  flowers,  brown  in  its  wetness  as  the 
ribbed  sea-sand  on  which  she  lay. 

At  the  sight  of  that  wonder  Cuan  O'Lochain 
dismounted  and  bent  over  her,  devouring  her  beauty 
with  sad  eyes,  thinking  her  dead.  The  sea  sang 
gaily  below  him  as  he  looked.  The  April  sun  shone 
on  her,  the  sweet  winds  drove  across  the  chanting 
waves,  and  the  larks  sang  overhead  in  the  blueness. 
Love  came  into  his  heart  for  the  fair,  still  woman. 

254 


Liban  of  the  Wave 


He  loosed  the  golden  clasps  of  his  blue  mantle  and 
wrapped  her  about,  lifting  her  to  the  saddle.  There 
the  fisherman  held  her  till  Cuan  mounted  and  rode 
away. 

"  I  will  be  thinking  that  fair  one  is  like  Sin,  the 
fairy-woman  who  caused  the  battle  of  Seghais,"  said 
he ;  but  he  told  no  man,  and  went  his  way. 

For  all  the  long  miles  to  his  home  the  woman 
made  no  motion  of  life.  Not  a  tremble  of  her  long 
lashes  as  her  head  lay  on  Cuan  O'Lochain's  breast, 
no  stir  of  her  white  bosom  with  breath.  He  thought 
her  dead,  yet  all  his  soul  had  gone  out  to  her,  mourn- 
ing in  love  while  he  held  her  in  his  arms. 

Lightly  he  carried  her  into  the  hall  of  his  home  ; 
but  when  he  reached  the  threshold  of  his  mother's 
door  the  weight  of  her  bowed  his  chest  to  his  knee, 
so  that  he  paused  on  the  thrice-blessed  step,  holding 
her  to  him,  her  yellow  hair  sweeping  the  floor. 

"  Who  is  it  you  are  bringing  me  from  the  sea  ?  " 
asked  Dervolga,  his  mother,  rising  from  among  her 
maids.  "  Is  it  a  wife  you  carry  home,  Cuan,  son  of 
my  love  ? " 

"  As  it  may  be,  mother,"  replied  he ;  and  with  a 
great  effort  he  lifted  over  and  stood  in  the  room,  and 
she  lay  light  as  the  sea-foam  in  his  arms  again,  with 
the  life-pulse  slowly  throbbing  to  his  own. 

He  laid  her  on  the  settle  by  the  turf-fire,  and 
255 


The  Measure  of  Life 


wonderful  was  her  beauty  as  she  opened  her  eyes, 
blue  as  the  bog-flax  in  his  native  bogs.  And  she 
smiled  on  him  as  a  woman  smiles  on  the  lover  of  her 
dreams,  so  that  his  head  sank  on  her  bosom. 

When  Dervolga  saw  that  look  and  his  kiss,  she 
withdrew  her  maidens  and  went  forth.  "Bitter, 
bitter  are  the  gifts  of  the  Sea-Lord,"  she  wept,  "  and 
great  bitterness  to  me  is  this  thing,  for  this  woman  is 
of  the  Shee,  and  evil  will  she  bring  on  my  son  and 
all  that  is  his." 

Little  did  Cuan  O'Lochain  know  of  her  de- 
parture, for  all  his  being  was  submerged  in  love  for 
the  fair  white  woman ;  with  her  he  lived  three 
months  of  supreme  happiness  and  joy,  forgetting  all 
his  songs  and  his  place  at  the  king's  right  hand. 
And  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  month,  Dermot 
MacCarrol  passed  by  with  a  hosting  to  meet  Hugh 
Dubh,  and  took  him  with  the  beauty  of  the  world  in 
his  possession.  Cruel  was  Dermot,  black  was  his 
nature,  his  heart  full  of  evil.  He  put  Cuan  to  the 
torture,  that  he  might  force  him  to  give  up  his  wife. 
But  Cuan  had  ever  one  answer:  "Rather  would  I 
ransom  her  from  the  Power  of  Evil,  with  my  own 
soul." 

Then  Dermot  put  her  in  a  strong  tower,  and 
blinded  Cuan,  tortured  him  with  fire,  and  broke  his 
legs  below  the  knee.  Then  said  he,  "  I  will  marry 

256 


Liban  of  the  Wave 


her,  Cuan  O'Lochain,  and  you  will  not  see,  or  move 
to  prevent  me." 

All  that  night  Cuan  O'Lochain  lay  in  manacles, 
chained  to  the  tower  by  the  sea,  and  the  winds  swept 
over  him  singing,  the  curlews  cried,  and  the  wild 
swans  sang  on  their  homeward  flight  All  night 
long  the  little  waves  whispered  to  him,  calling, 
chiming,  singing,  and  his  heart  bursting  with  the 
vain  desire  for  his  fair  love.  In  the  morning,  when 
the  level  sunrays  lit  the  sands  with  the  flood-tide 
lipping  the  green  shore,  Dermot  went  to  the  tower 
and  called  the  woman  forth ;  but  all  that  he  saw  in 
the  little  room  where  he  had  prisoned  her  was  the 
image  of  a  wave  that  swept  like  a  shadow  across  the 
stone  floor,  and  a  wift  of  white  foam  that  blinded  his 
eyes  for  the  moment  and  was  gone. 

"Cuan  O'Lochain!"  cried  Dermot.  "Where  is 
the  beautiful  woman  ? " 

And,  said  Cuan,  with  a  laugh  in  his  heart  and  joy 
in  his  voice  :  "  Ask  me,  O  King,  where  is  Liban,  the 
daughter  of  Eochaidh  MacMuiredha.  Where  is  the 
wave  that  passed  out  to  sea  ?  Where  is  the  racing 
billow  ?  the  glint  of  sunshine  under  the  green  walls 
of  Tir-na-Thuin  ?  " 

Then  Dermot,  fearing  the  curse  that  the  Chief 
Bard  might  put  upon  him,  set  Cuan  free,  and  left  him 
there  in  the  loneliness  and  silence  by  the  old  stone 

257  S 


The  Measure  of  Life 


tower.  Many  a  year  till  he  grew  old  he  dwelt  there, 
and  made  many  songs  on  his  Shee  wife.  Many, 
many  days  and  long  nights,  in  calm  and  moonlight,  in 
storm  and  tempest  and  rain,  in  mist  and  drifting  fogs, 
and  under  sun  and  moon,  he  sought  her  till  the  end. 
In  his  heart  was  all  the  wild  unrest,  the  perpetual 
motion  of  the  changing  tides.  He  knew  no  peace, 
no  comfort  was  his,  no  content.  Blind,  crippled,  and 
broken,  he  called  upon  the  love  of  his  youth,  till  the 
snows  of  age  were  thick  on  his  head.  Then,  on  a 
night  in  April,  when  the  moon  shone  brightly,  and 
the  great  south-east  wind  blew  roaring  over  Erin, 
came  a  flood-tide  greater  than  any  man  had  ever 
known.  It  came  without  sound  up  the  shore,  lapping 
gently  to  the  spring  flowers,  covering  the  greenness  of 
the  grass  with  its  own  greenness,  in  one  enormous  high 
wave,  in  which  were  soft  whisperings  and  low  music, 
and  the  voice  of  a  woman  calling  sweet,  as  a  girl 
calls  to  her  lover  through  the  dusk.  And  when  it 
went  Cuan  was  no  longer.  It  had  taken  with  it  the 
homeless  wave  in  his  heart,  the  longing,  the  seeking, 
the  flame  of  love  that  consumed  him  always. 
Whither  it  took  him  no  man  can  tell.  But  Fiontuin 
smiled  when  I  asked  him  if  Cuan  O'Lochain  was  not 
also  in  Tir-na-Oge,  singing  songs  to  the  white  love- 
liness of  Liban,  daughter  of  the  sea,  and  the  flying 
wave. 

258 


SAMHAIN 

HPHIS  is  a  story  Conal  told  me  in  the  misty 
gloaming  of  a  November  eve.  The  shadows 
pressed  against  the  narrow  casements  all  the  while, 
or  wavered,  furtive  and  vague,  across  the  thrice-blessed 
threshold,  as  if  listening  to  a  tale  they  knew.  I  had 
glanced  up  the  wide,  white  road  ascending  from  the 
level  boglands  to  the  little  old  church  perched  on 
the  hill,  and  seen  it  thronged  with  vague  shapes, 
nebulous  and  indistinct — now  melting  into  the  drift- 
ing murk,  now  vaporous  white.  The  dead  hastening 
to  their  old  haunts  for  that  brief  interval  between  sun 
and  sun  which  is  theirs  on  All  Souls'.  Conal's  door 
was  set  wide,  his  earthen  floor  swept  clean,  the  quaint 
china  on  the  black  oak  dresser  reflecting  the  light  of 
the  great  turf  fire  piled  high  on  the  wide  hearth. 
Facing  its  crimson  glow  were  four  of  the  rush- 
bottomed  chairs  that  usually  stood  round  the  gate 
table  where  Conal  ate  his  simple  meals.  His  dreamy 
eyes  met  mine,  and  he  answered  the  unspoken 
question.  "  Nay,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Shan  would 
always  be  in  the  corner  of  the  suttle  there,  with  the 
neighbours'  children  at  his  knee." 

259 


The  Measure  of  Life 


He  nodded  across  the  fire  at  the  old  settle, 
polished  to  a  mirror-like  brightness  by  contact  with 
long  generations  passed  away,  then  pulled  out  a  four- 
legged  stool  and  mutely  invited  me  to  sit  by  him  in 
the  corner  of  the  cavernous  chimney.  His  house  was 
swept  and  garnished  for  a  more  honoured  company 
than  mine.  Conal  was  waiting  in  the  firelight  for  his 
five  dead  sons.  They  would  drift  in  and  sit  in  their 
accustomed  seats,  and  silently,  invisibly  drift  away 
again.  But  Conal  would  know  their  presence  and  be 
glad.  I  sat  down  beside  him  and  thought  of  my 
walk  under  the  sombre  sky  across  the  lonely  bog, 
with  its  deep  cuttings  brimming  with  wan,  white 
water,  and  the  strange  thing  I  had  seen  on  the 
wind-swept  waste,  with  the  plover's  cry  in  my  ears. 
Conal,  with  the  strange  perception  that  was  his,  must 
have  divined  my  wonder.  "  Did  you  meet  e'er  a  one 
coming  across  the  bog  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Yes,"  I  said, 
"  I  met  one  burdened  with  age  and  sorrow,  whose  eyes 
I  cannot  forget."  Conal  bent  towards  me  sideways 
in  his  bee-hive  chair,  his  fine  fingers  outspread  on 
his  knee.  "  Aroon,"  he  whispered,  "  were  they  your 
own  ? "  And  the  strange  thing  was  that  the  eyes  I 
could  not  forget  were  my  own  eyes,  and  the  face  was 
my  own  face,  worn  and  pale  with  great  sorrow. 

He  nodded  silently  at  the  leaping  flame.  "  None 
but  the  blood  of  Hy  Neill  will  ever  be  seeing  that 

260 


Samhain 

thing,"  he  said,  "  and  do  not  fear,  for  it  is  only  a 
warning  of  what  need  not  come.  It  is  for  a  remem- 
brance, machree,  and  no  harm  need  come  of  it.  I 
will  tell  you  of  how  it  came  to  the  Hy  Neill.  Sit 
now,  and  do  not  be  feared.  It  will  be  a  long  while 
back,  in  a  time  that  no  one  will  be  remembering  now 
— before  the  untamed  Pagan  hordes  came  to  the 
sweet,  wide  plains  and  grassy  hills  of  Erin,  when 
Lughaird  was  Ard  Ri-Lughaird,  who  was  gracious 
and  noble,  high-born  and  beautiful  ;  who  submitted 
to  no  tyranny  or  oppression  from  any  in  the  world, 
and  from  him  are  descended  the  Dal  Cais,  who  till 
this  day  have  never  been  bought  with  money,  place, 
or  power  to  do  the  thing  that  is  wrong.  So  in  his  life 
was  this  King  of  Banba,  but  he  had  the  great  failing. 
Like  that  young  man  whom  the  Lord  loved,  he  could 
not  give  up  his  pleasures,  and  for  pleasure  and  con- 
quest he  lived,  and  that  led  to  evil  beyond  telling, 
and  almost  cost  him  his  soul.  All  women  love  the 
brave  and  fearless,  and  Lughaird  was  the  flower  of 
manhood,  the  delight  of  all  the  world.  No  woman 
ever  looked  on  him  that  did  not  love  him  in  her  heart. 
And  he  loved  them  all — for  a  season.  A  week,  may- 
be a  month — but  then  forgot  them  in  his  fierce  valour 
and  great  joy  in  battle.  Fair,  strange  women  followed 
his  footsteps  weeping,  but  he  hated  tears  and  sighs, 
and  loved  laughter,  till  he  came  to  thirty  years  of  age, 

261  S  3 


The  Measure  of  Life 


and  had  been  crowned  King  of  all  Ireland  for  five 
years.  A  tall,  great  hero,  smiling,  fair,  and  straight- 
featured,  with  the  nose  high  between  his  black  brows, 
as  all  the  Danan  have,  and  eyes  that  were  black  in 
their  blueness.  Shapely  and  splendid,  with  a  voice 
like  the  harping  of  Ossian,  and  a  heart  impervious  as 
the  grey  steel.  On  this  day  of  his  life  there  met  him 
two  women  he  loved.  One  was  his  sister  Crede  of 
the  Yellow  Hair,  that  was  born  with  him,  and  who 
was  so  gifted  by  God  that  His  love  shone  through 
her  as  the  sunlight  streams  through  the  thin  porcelain, 
and  was  so  worn  with  prayers  and  fastings  that  the 
wind  lifted  her  when  it  blew.  When  he  met  her  he 
was  ashamed,  remembering  his  sins  ;  but  Crede  spoke 
not  of  them  at  all  on  that  day.  Only  laid  an  oath 
upon  him,  that  when  she  called  he  would  come,  what- 
ever company  he  might  be  in  ;  and  he  promised,  and 
she  went  away,  though  none  saw  her  go.  Now  the 
source  of  Lughaird's  evil  life  was  in  a  Pagan  woman, 
Ota,  who  was  cruelty  and  mystery  that  none  could 
fathom.  More  beautiful  than  heaven,  more  terrible 
than  hell,  a  proud,  pale  woman,  full  of  passionless  lust 
for  blood  and  wealth,  stained  from  her  white  feet  to 
her  neck  of  snow  with  the  evil  she  had  done ;  and  of 
her  Lughaird  never  wearied,  for  he  knew  she  did  not 
love  him.  But  she  had  cast  a  glamour  over  him  that 
none  could  break.  That  night,  as  they  sat  together 

262 


Samhain 

at  the  feast,  Crede  made  a  compact  with  God  that 
He  would  take  the  years  of  her  life  as  the  price  of 
her  brother's  soul,  that  he  might  be  delivered  from 
the  Pagan  woman.  And  that  same  was  accepted 
quickly,  and  even  as  she  prayed  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  galloping  horse,  and  the  King  was  by  her.  And 
when  Crede  saw  him  in  all  his  splendour  and  beauty, 
with  the  flush  of  wine  on  his  firm  cheeks  and  the  light 
of  revelry  in  his  eyes,  she  held  out  her  hands  to  him 
in  agony  lest  he  would  be  lost ;  and  holding  his  hands 
in  hers,  she  sank  down  on  her  couch  and  died.  Then 
Lughaird  straightened  her  limbs,  and  sat  at  her  side 
mourning  her.  Now  there  was  before  Christ  came  a 
great  Feast  of  the  Dead  in  Erin,  called  Samhain,  and 
on  it  all  the  Dead  returned,  from  the  rise  of  the  moon 
till  it  set,  even  as  they  do  now.  And  as  he  sat,  all 
the  women  who  had  died  for  Lughaird,  beginning 
with  his  mother,  passed  through  the  dead  nun's  cell 
and  looked  down  on  the  King  with  sorrowful  eyes. 
Without  cry  or  motion  in  an  icy  air,  the  souls  of  these 
women  passed  in  and  away,  and  there  was  no  sound 
at  all  in  the  dim  night  save  the  call  of  the  plover,  or 
the  drumming  of  the  snipe,  and  the  echo  of  faint 
sighs  from  beyond  the  grave.  And  no  light  save  the 
blessed  candle  above  Crede's  yellow  tresses.  At 
midnight  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  on  the  cold  pure 
lips,  and  said,  "  Farewell !  Crede,  it  is  too  late  !  else 

263 


The  Measure  of  Life 


had  my  heart  broken  this  night.     I  am  content  with 
the  pleasures  of  earth — I  ask  no  better  Paradise." 

Now  the  nun's  cell  was  built  with  the  door  towards 
the  sea,  and  when  he  looked  out  across  her  straight 
bed  he  saw  Ocean  on  the  flow,  with  the  Samhain 
moon  red  as  copper,  dull  on  its  outer  verge.  And 
coming  up  from  the  white  sands  the  figure  of  a 
man,  old  and  stooping,  who  crept  slowly  on  his  staff 
towards  the  door  and  entered  it.  At  the  sight  of  that 
man  the  King's  knees  smote  together,  the  coldness  of 
fear  gripped  his  heart  and  tightened  his  breath.  For 
long  the  old  man  stood  over  the  dead  nun,  till  at  last 
Lughaird  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  not  his  own. 
"  Who  art  thou  that  wearest  my  crown  ? "  And  at 
that  word  the  old  man  lifted  his  face.  He  was  bent, 
and  straightened  himself;  and  though  no  man  in 
Erin  was  tall  as  the  King,  this  man  was  as  tall. 
"Aye!"  he  mocked,  "Lughaird,  son  of  Lornach, 
who  am  I  ? " 

Lughaird  looked  on  the  face  and  went  back  one 
pace — for  it  was  his  own.  Bloated  and  leering  and 
crimson,  a  face  that  had  looked  on  hell,  and  re- 
membered the  grave,  worn  with  iniquity,  weary  with 
wrong-doing,  filled  with  a  ceaseless  rage  against  God 
and  man,  proud  and  merciless,  more  cruel  than  the 
tiger,  unrepentant  as  the  Evil  One.  For  every  line 
was  a  ruined  grace. 

264 


Samhain 

Then  Lughaird  gazed  at  the  holy  purity  of  the 
dead  nun,  and  cried  aloud,  "  Uch !  Uch  !  Jesus ! 
Mary !  What  shall  I  do  ? "  And  a  wind  that  was 
not  of  this  world  caught  the  old  man's  scarlet  cloak 
and  covered  him  from  view.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
been  suddenly  carried  from  hell  on  that  wind  and 
suddenly  caught  back  on  it  again. 

But  the  remembrance  of  that  face  that  was  his 
own  never  departed  from  Lughaird  from  that  time 
till  he  came  to  his  end.  And  as  his  sins  had  been 
great,  so  was  his  bitter  repentance  while  the  breath 
was  in  him,  and  it  is  written  in  many  a  book  how  just 
and  upright  he  became.  For  the  power  of  the  evil 
that  held  him  was  broken  by  the  sight  of  his  own 
soul  irrevocably  damned,  and  no  other  sight  would 
have  saved  him.  But  if  it  were  the  answer  to  Crede's 
sacrifice,  or  the  powers  of  Pagan  darkness,  can  any 
tell  ?  Whist !  That  will  be  Shan  stepping  over  the 
threshold.  Look  how  the  turf  ash  flies ! 


THE  END 


PRINTED   BY  WILLIAM   CLOWES  AND  SONS.  LIMITED,  LONDON  AND   BKCCLBS. 


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